


Strangers With Cookies

by Twist_Shimmy



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-02-21
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-15 20:23:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 40,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twist_Shimmy/pseuds/Twist_Shimmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The enemy of my enemy is my friend." Sten and Adhara, a Dalish Warden, have little in common except disdain for the human race. But for two people thrown into the midst of Fereldan politics, this becomes a basis for friendship. Whether or not their mutual respect of one another will be enough to keep them sane is anyone's guess.... Told from Sten's perspective, eventual AO rating. Complete; posting chapters as they receive their final edit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "What is that smell?"

 

  


**Chapter One:** "What is that smell?"

 

 

 

Elfroot _._

 _Easy, eager, evening, east. Each, every, elaborate. Eight, elsewhere. Eating... egg._

Sten's scowl deepens. No matter how he tries to prevent it, for the past week his mind has been drawn more and more to food words. Perhaps it would be best to halt this exercise and return to reciting the Qun.

“Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun.” _Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun._ His voice is growing hoarse. Water would certainly soothe his throat. What poor timing that the passage he left off on is concerned with the sea.

 _Exacerbate._

Is there nothing for him to focus on that will not draw his mind to the things that he cannot have? Moving to F again seems dangerous. There is a fence directly in front of him, but he is already having enough difficulty not thinking about _food._

As though on cue, loud footsteps and the clink of armor sounds from his right. A mishmash of people are approaching from the town thoroughfare. Not refugees, or Templars. Perhaps another group of bandits. If they are more children with rocks, he may no longer possess the patience to ignore them.

 _Elf._

It halts the party and gazes up at him. Perhaps this is another curious gawker, though the markings covering its face make it nearly impossible for Sten to read its expression. As with all elves, gender is equally difficult to determine. Slight figure, with either muscle or curve. Long hair pulled into a ponytail, and a wide mouth, though the armor indicates masculinity. A man in face-paint, then.

He does not stand like the other elves he has seen in Ferelden; his shoulders are squared, and he is familiar with the splintmail that he is wearing. Behind him stands a human male, two human females, and one of those dogs they are so fond of in this country.

 _Exude_. He can smell the dog's stench from here. It is even managing to overpower the refugees. Sten stares down at them and waits for the curses. But all they do is stare back. When his eyes narrow, the elf finally speaks.

“What are you?” An elf's voice; soft, lilting, and disconcertingly feminine. His observer's head tilts slightly to the left. _Enthralled_.

Sten has long since lost patience for those who seek to use him for entertainment. “A prisoner,” he snarls, but the elf is not daunted.

They talk about him as though he is not present, which he expects. What is unusual is that they appear to be discussing his release. And all the while, the elf's eyes remain pinned on his. They are grey.

 _Extraordinary_. No qunari possesses eyes remotely similar in color. Behind him, the discussion has devolved into bickering. The elf ignores it and takes a step forward, placing his hands on Sten's cage and gazing upward at him. The markings on his face appear to be some sort of tattoo. Beneath the violet lines covering his forehead and cheeks, Sten notices smooth skin. This elf is still nearly a child. Perhaps the others are his guards. Though why humans would be guarding an elf here, he could not imagine.

“Let me see your hands,” he orders. Sten raises them to the bars, placing one on either side of his head in an attempt to intimidate him. They are nearly as large as the elf's face, but he inspects them without even a flicker of fear.

“You're a warrior,” he tells Sten as though he is not already aware.

“And you are an elf.”

He bares his teeth. “Quiet, all of you,” he says over his shoulder. “I want this one.” Grey eyes meet his and do not blink. “If I freed you, would you fight for me?”

 _Eccentric_. Though potentially... _escape_. It would be nice to be outside of this cage. “What are you fighting?”

“We're fighting darkspawn and working to end the Blight.”

“...You are a Grey Warden?”

The elf flinches, but nods.

“Surprising.” _Embittering_. Sten lost his brothers to darkspawn, and _this_ is what humans rely on to stop the Blight? Elves, women, and a loud-mouthed boy? The qunari could lift the elf in one hand; how could such a little thing fare better against the darkspawn than his soldiers had?

They continue speaking, but he ceases paying attention to the words. Their language is coarse, and full of consonants. Harsh, with no rhythm or flow, and after so long in the sun it quickly becomes grating. When they leave him, it is a relief.

He closes his eyes and listens to the grass swaying in the breeze. If he ignores the stench of refugee and the dry heat, it almost sounds like water to his ears. Cruel, to be trapped in surroundings that almost replicate the sounds he will never experience again. _End_. _Extinguish_.

The sound of more bickering makes Sten reopen his eyes minutes later. The party has returned, and the women are clamoring at one another, speaking too quickly for him to follow without effort.

“What's your name?” The elf is gazing up at him again.

Sten bristles before he remembers that is the Fereldan way of asking his identity. “Sten.”

The elf bares his teeth once more. “Pleased to meet you. I'm Adhara.”

An odd name, though it flows better than any other he has heard in this land. “Are you mocking me? I do not expect politeness from Fereldans.”

He bares his teeth again, and Sten wonders what could have been so offensive until the elf begins laughing— no, he has not been not baring his teeth, but _smiling_ in an exaggerated fashion. Does no Fereldan have restraint?

“I see you've had the same experience with the _shemlen_ as I have,” replies the elf. The lock clicks, the door opens, and Sten is able to take a step for the first time in weeks. As he exits his prison, the elf gazes up at him. “ _Andaran atish'an_ , Sten of the qunari.” More unfamiliar words. Perhaps this elf is no Fereldan at all.

 _Emancipation_. Sten takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders. Better to die shamed in battle than to die shamed in a cage. He is given armor, and a greatsword, and agrees to follow the Wardens in return for his release. He walks behind the chattering humans, surreptitiously stretching his sore legs, as they depart the town.

The elf walks in front, choosing their direction, still acting in every way as their leader. The only time he speaks is near dusk, when he orders his followers to stop for the night. The humans begin unpacking and building a campfire, but the elf merely perches on a nearby rock and watches his companions work. He only joins them to take a share of supper, which is offered to Sten, who has lowered himself to the ground underneath a tree far enough away to ignore their words.

“Eat. The villagers told me that you were in that cage for weeks. Do you need water?” he asks, and Sten shakes his head. The elf ignores the movement and passes him a waterskin before sitting beside him underneath the tree.

Food.

 _Fire, fight, flee, finery, fish, feeling._

Sten eats, drinks, and inspects the elf's equipment. His bow is made of a strange material, with similar markings as cover his face, and he finds himself curious enough to ask, “What are you?”

The elf laughs again. “I'm Dalish. Am I as new to you as you are to me, then?”

Sten counters the question with one of his own. “But you are an elf, are you not?”

“If you're comparing me to the poor things you find in cities, you should know that _they_ are not elves.”

“They look like elves to me.”

He shakes his head. “They've spent too long with the _shemlen_. They may look like elves, but they've forgotten what that means. We Dalish call them 'flat-ears'.”

Parshaara, Sten is too tired for this. He returns the waterskin, and the elf takes the cue and leaves him alone beneath the tree. The humans retire to their tents, finally silencing themselves, but the Dalish resumes his perch on the rock, evidently intending to keep watch. Sten observes him until the food in his belly makes him sleepy, trying to learn all that he can about this strange creature who has freed him.

The arishok had not warned him that there were two breeds of elf. Perhaps he did not know. Sten presses his back against the tree and sighs. And now he never will.

 

 _Failure_.


	2. “No one has a place here. Your farmers wish to be merchants. The  merchants dream of being nobles, and the nobles become warriors. No one is content  to be who they are.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T for Fereldan bathtimes  
> Word Count: 2,250  
> Characters: f!Mahariel, Sten, Leliana, Alistair, Morrigan, and an errant bar of soap. Guest appearance by the wardog's stench.  
> Summary: Sten muses about how strange Adhara's decisions are, and gets a big shock at bathtime. Adhara, on the other hand, is bemused by how strange the shemlen are.

**Chapter Two** : “No one has a place here. Your farmers wish to be merchants. The merchants dream of being nobles, and the nobles become warriors. No one is content to be who they are.” 

 

 

The elf is insane. There is no other explanation. 

Sten paces back and forth beside the fire and listens to the endless chatter of the others. It is unfathomable that the mage still possesses her tongue. Or that the other Warden, whom they call a Templar, has not killed her himself. Someone should silence her and then give her a proper shirt. 

Everyone continually discusses the Blight, but though Adhara takes him along often, thus far they have fought more walking corpses and wolves than darkspawn. When a band is met on the road, the party slaughters them, but then continues walking rather than attempting to track their larger force. When confronted, Adhara admitted that the way to end the Blight was to defeat the archdemon, but no one appears to be _looking_ for it. The arishok told him that the darkspawn mass in the south of Ferelden, but Adhara is taking them north. And west. 

Grey Wardens kill darkspawn, he has been told. They are the only foreign soldiers for which the qunari have ever held respect. But these Wardens seem to prefer to aid the weak and end sieges. The human Warden grows hostile when Sten speaks out against these actions, asking if he would rather they let everyone die. But tending to the poor is the only function of their Chantry that is not useless; if they do the Chantry's work, what is left for the brothers and sisters? And where are the soldiers that are meant to defend the cities? 

No one does what they are meant to. The Warden who is also a Templar will not kill the illegal mage, whom the priestess does not seem to be bothered by, despite the fact that the mage's existence openly contradicts the tenets of her religion. And amidst this madness, Adhara seems determined to spread more chaos by undertaking tasks that are not the job of the Wardens. Based upon the responses of humans and elves alike, the fact that he is a Warden at all is also an anomaly. 

Are they saving this country, or destroying it? How was it possible that his people had not successfully conquered the mainland a century ago? 

But despite all this, their leader gives at least the illusion of rational thought. He holds his own in conversation with Sten far more successfully than the others. The priestess cannot even explain to him why she is _here_ , but on the whole the elf is clear-spoken. 

“Sten.” He is handed a plate, and he realizes by smell that the elf has cooked. The Dalish appear to have an understanding of spices, at least, and his meals, though simple, tend to have an actual flavor. They sit around the fire to eat, and Sten endures their conversation in silence.

“Do I hear water, Adhara?” asks the priestess eventually, and when the elf nods, continues. “I think that we should all have baths tonight, yes?”

“An excellent idea,” agrees the mage, setting aside her plate and stretching. Sten averts his eyes and gives a quiet sigh of relief. He had already surmised that the human sense of smell is not as strong as that of his people. Adhara smells strongly of sweat and darkspawn blood, though without as much musk as his fellow Warden. Sten had never been around many elves; perhaps they do not stink nearly as much as humans do.

“I will agree on behalf of Alistair,” adds the elf, and ignores the insulted “Hey!” he receives.

“Will no one bathe the dog?” Sten asks, but is met with blank stares and an angry growl.

“Why? He's a wardog,” Adhara shrugs. “They stink.”

“Yes, they do.”

The mage and priestess rise. “Come down with us, Adhara.” 

“I'll go later. I need to fix my gauntlet. The links are jammed and I can't bend my wrist.” Adhara sets his plate aside and rummages in his pack for a set of tools.

“Do that in the morning!”

“And if we're attacked in the night?” Grey eyes meet blue, and the priestess falls silent. Yet again Sten is left wondering why Adhara has allowed so many non-soldiers along. They do not think properly and are likely to endanger the entire party.

“Fine, but don't go alone when you do,” she insists. “That would not be safe.” Though unlike the mage, the priestess at least has a sense of self-preservation.

“I'll go with Sten and Alistair,” the elf agrees, “assuming they don't mind.”

The Templar chokes on a sip of water, and the priestess frowns. “I-is that the best idea?” 

“I'm not modest. Go enjoy the water, girls.” He dismisses them with a wave of his bare hand.

“What about me?” The Templar groans as the women leave. “What if I'm modest?”

“I'll keep my eyes closed,” the elf retorts, returning his attention to his gauntlet.

Sten stares at them both, but decides not to ask for clarification. Perhaps Fereldan women do not bathe unescorted, and they wanted the elf along for safety reasons. He has seen stranger things since arriving in this country. And if they were sensible and segregated themselves properly by gender instead of traveling with women in tow, it would not be a problem at all. 

When they return, damp-haired and clad in clean clothes, Sten is horrified to discover that the mage has _two_ of those scraps she insists are robes. 

“Give me your dirty things and I will wash them after the three of you are done bathing,” The priestess offers, indicating a small pile of their discarded clothes. The Templar gladly tosses over several pairs of dirty trousers, socks, and shirts. Sten adds his shirt and a pair of trousers from his pack to the pile before rising and systematically removing pieces of his armor. The human follows his example, and soon they are staring down at Adhara expectantly.

He does not look up, but appears to feel their gaze. “Go ahead of me. I'm almost done here.” 

Sten unties his ponytail and walks toward the water with the other Warden, silently enjoying how poorly the mage's voice carries toward them. The water is cold, which makes him miss Seheron. He wades in all the same and catches the soap the Templar tosses his way from the washbucket. First the hair. The hair always smells the worst, especially after so much time under a helmet. 

“I'm coming down,” Adhara calls once while Sten is taking his nails to his scalp. He glances over his shoulder to see the elf standing on the shore in trousers and a loose tunic, unwrapping the long strips of cloth that serve as his wrist guards. “Ugh. These will need washing.”

Sten dunks his head under the water, then shakes and wrings his braids so that they may dry while he sees to the rest of himself. 

A minute later, he hears the elf curse and splash. “Who has the soap?” 

“Uh, Sten does,” the Templar replies.

Adhara wades up behind Sten as he rinses his shoulders. “Hand it over, will you?” 

Sten turns, soap in hand, and looks down at Adhara. The elf's hair is loose, like his, and has mostly covered his ears. He is still not used to dark hair, and so it draws his eyes downward toward Adhara's shoulders and pale— 

Vashedan _._

He hands Adhara the soap and turns away abruptly. The elf isn't a man at all. They are being led by a _woman_. The splintmail that had made her seem like an androgynous boychild had been hiding a distinctly feminine body. 

Sten redresses hurriedly and returns to camp, but is not granted a reprieve. _She_ and her fellow Warden return together minutes later, and he looks up to see her now soaking wet and wearing only her smallclothes. When she steps into the firelight, a large scar across her back is thrown into sharp relief by the shifting light. 

Claws. When Adhara turns to respond to the priestess' surprised gasp, he sees another network of scars on her shield arm. Fangs. 

“What?”

“Do you not have clean clothes?” asks the sister.

She shakes her head and begins gathering her hair back into a ponytail. “The only ones I have are dirty. I was actually hoping to borrow a set from you.” 

“I-I don't have any....”

When Adhara turns to the mage, she crosses her arms. “Nor do I. And why do you not?” 

The elf shrugs. “Never crossed my mind. The Dalish don't exactly have private baths and space for wardrobes in our _aravels_. You _shemlen_ are so modest.” 

“Sten,” The Templar murmurs beside him. “The staring is a little creepy.”

Sten curses and turns toward his rucksack. After a moment's rummaging, he produces his spare clothing and offers it to the elf. “Here.” 

Adhara frowns at his hand. “What's that?” 

“A shirt.”

“That's a _dress,_ ” she frowns.

He presses it toward her hands. “Put it on.” 

“It's dirty,” she sniffs, batting it away. “Weren't you wearing that when we found you?”

“It is preferable to seeing you naked.”

Her scowl deepens to match his. “If I wanted to smell like you, Sten, I'd sleep in your bedding.” 

“'Tis possible that he wouldn't mind,” the mage interjects, crossing her arms. “I don't think he has blinked since you came into view.”

“Of all the—Adhara, here,” the priestess fumes, wrapping the elf's blanket around her shoulders. “There, now you are clean and no one's sensibilities are being offended, now are they?”

“Mine might be,” the Templar replies, and is met with glares from all three women.

Sten jerks his hair back into its ponytail, seizes the elf by her upper arm, and pulls her a short distance from the others. She allows herself to be dragged away with only slight resistance. 

“What's gotten into you?”

“You look like a woman,” he begins, then shakes his head and falls silent. Too much is wrong to articulate it properly.

She raises an eyebrow. “That's because I am.” 

“But I thought you were a man.”

Her grey eyes widen, and she begins to laugh merrily. “By the Creators! Really? Oh, I'm so sorry.” 

“...So you were not attempting to hide it?”

She frowns. “Why would I? I mean, I bound my chest, but that was to keep the splintmail from being uncomfortable. It was hard to breathe without pinchi—I just assumed that you would know!” 

“I have never worked closely with elven men or women,” he explains. “Elves cannot be Beresaad, and women are not soldiers.” But now that she is not coated in darkspawn blood, he can smell her clearly. Had she been this clean at their first meeting, he never would have confused her for a man.

The blanket ruffles in the breeze, and she draws it more tightly about her shoulders. “In Ferelden they are.” 

He shakes his head. “That is impossible. You are either a woman or a Grey Warden. You cannot be both.” 

Her smile fades. “Yes, I can, and I am.” 

“Women are not warriors,” he repeats.

This time her teeth truly do bare. “Female elves have been warriors since before this continent harbored humans.” 

He has heard the tales of the old elves, who were supposedly immortal, but lived life so slowly that the humans conquered them before their leaders had agreed that there was a threat. “You have as much in common with the elves of old as I have with a bear.” 

“Sten, you have a _great deal_ in common with a bear.” She steps closer and smiles up at him again. “You're large, and hairy, and you growl.”

“I do _not_ —” He cuts himself off when her smile widens. “You are changing the subject.”

She nods. “Yes, because there is no point in speaking about this any longer.” And with that she returns to the campfire, but he remains in the trees until her scent has been overwhelmed by the night air. 

They do not speak as they sit watch together that night. She busies herself with improvements to the priestess' bow, and Sten spends the shift deep in thought. 

It makes sense now. Their lack of direction, her strange decisions, the inclusion of non-soldiers in the party. Perhaps she is a Grey Warden, but not a Warden like the soldiers of the tales. They may well have a branch of their order dedicated to such trivial tasks in the hopes of spreading their name and encouraging good will and increased recruitment. It might even be necessary, since children are not being slated to the order from birth. 

If true, then she can be a Warden and a woman. A woman with a sword is not a soldier, as the priestess has proven on multiple occasions already. She and the Templar have mentioned other Wardens several times before; perhaps they will cross paths, and Sten will be able to meet true Wardens, who fight darkspawn and will seek the archdemon. 

When their shift ends, he settles onto his bedding and frowns at Adhara one last time. It is a warm, breezy night; he is downwind from where she has made up her bed, and she is stretched atop her blanket, scarred forearm draped across her bare stomach, hair once again loose. After a few moments, she opens her eyes and returns his stare until he puts his back to her. 

Anaan esaam Qun. _Victory is in the Qun_. He closes his eyes and thinks of tides until sleep takes him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that made me fall in love with the way Sten thinks. So fun to write!


	3. "...I should have stayed in that cage."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T for Dalish nudity  
> Word Count: 2,000  
> Characters: f!Mahariel, Sten, Leliana, Alistair, Morrigan, and various sets of smallclothes.  
> Summary: Adhara, frustrated by Sten's dismissal of her battle skills because of her gender, decides to fight back. Alistair gets caught in the crossfire and nearly dies of embarrassment.

**Chapter Three:** “...I should have stayed in that cage.” 

 

 

She is getting underneath his skin. 

It has been a month since Sten realized that Adhara was female. Since that night, she has insisted upon parading about camp in only men's trousers and her chest wrappings. On warm nights, she removes those as well, and wears only her smallclothes and breastband. The priestess and the mage have grown accustomed to it and no longer seem disconcerted, though the Templar has taken to reading books or disappearing into his tent to avoid the sight. The new elf, the one that attempted to kill her three days ago, simply watches with open longing. 

Each night before they sit watch, she stands before Sten and gaze up at him angrily, hair loose, pale skin very visible. “Am I a woman?” she asks. 

“Yes,” he replies. She will then put on her armor and join him for their shift, sitting beside him in amicable silence. Because of this, he has never attempted to stand watch with another of the party; the Templar insists that Sten make small talk, the priestess babbles, and the mage blatantly attempts to seduce him. He is not sure what Adhara is doing, but so far it has proven less obnoxious than the alternatives.

In the morning she will stand before him in her armor. “Am I a soldier?” 

“No.”

After she fells the last enemy of the day, standing beside him with her shield and sword that are nearly as large as she is, she will stare up at him again with grey eyes. “Am I a soldier?” she repeats. 

“No.”

“Then what am I?”

His answer to this varies, but it is never what she wishes to hear. And so when they return to camp, she begins the ritual again, standing before him with loose hair and scant clothing. None of the others appear to understand her motivations, either. Sten overhears the priestess confront her as they are cooking dinner together, and pauses his meditations to listen quietly. It no longer takes as much effort to understand Leliana as it used to. 

“You are being _cruel_ to Sten!”

“No,” the elf replies, “I'm not. He's being foolish.”

“And you're not?”

“Sten needs to trust me. He had no problem with me when he thought I was male. Showing him beyond a doubt that I'm a woman _and_ a warrior is the only way to fix this.”

But must you be so blatant?” she asks. “Alistair can hardly look you in the eye anymore. All he sees is breasts!” 

A spoon slams against a pot more violently than necessary, perhaps. “Then Alistair needs this as much as Sten does.” 

“...What?”

“Alistair should stop thinking of me as a woman.”

“Then you might want to wear armor more often, not less.” After the priestess says this, the two women cease speaking entirely.

So she is attempting to make him admit that she is both a woman and a soldier. Amusing. Armed with this new understanding, he begins to fight back. 

That night, she approaches him in her underwear. “Am I a—” 

“Yes.”

“Hmph.”

The next morning, he preemptively tells her that she is not a soldier when she greets him at breakfast. As a result, she asks him the question after each battle they fight together for the next two days. 

“Am I a soldier?”

“No.”

“Then what am I?”

“An elf,” he says. “A woman with a sword.” “Covered in road dust.” Or, if the battle has gone poorly, “bleeding.” Once, he tells her that she is “attractive,” and she falls silent for the rest of the day, just as he had hoped. But the next morning she resumes the ritual, and Sten reaches the limit of his patience.

That day they are nearly at Lake Calenhad when they are accosted on the road. When the last bandit falls to her blade, and she turns to him with a smile, tattoo spattered in human blood. “Am I a soldier?” 

“Yes,” he replies.

“The—really?” Their eyes meet suspiciously as he sheaths his sword.

“No.”

“Then what am I?”

“ _Infuriating_.”

All side-conversations cease, and the rest of the party turns and stares toward them in horror. The Templar puts his hand to his sword, apparently convinced that the two of them are about to come to blows. Sten looks down at Adhara, watching her face carefully, and is as surprised as the rest of them when she begins to laugh. 

“Finally,” she smiles, resting a hand on his chest-piece and taking a deep breath. “Now you know exactly how I feel about you.”

And with that, she ceases the ritual entirely. That night she asks him for the shirt he offered her weeks ago, cleans it, and spends their watch shift mending it into a loose, belted tunic. Considering how much time he spent in it while caged, he does not mind its transformation. 

Once it has been altered, she takes to wearing that with trousers when not in her armor, and her fellow Warden ceases hiding from her at night. Only the assassin seems to lament the change. By the time she recruits another mage—a woman, an _old_ woman, he will never understand her thinking —everyone appears to be getting along comparatively well. 

They are on their way back to the town full of walking corpses to meet _more_ mages when the Wardens appear to fall ill. Adhara has never been a heavy sleeper; each time he wakes in the night, she too is sitting upright on her bedroll, head turned toward the source of whichever noise has roused him. Recently, however, she has _been_ the source of the noise, and he will wake to find her tossing and turning, or shrieking until the Templar leaves his tent and wakes her gently. They mutter something about the archdemon, but he does not see the connection. 

Once they begin having nightmares together, Adhara's pale skin is marred by dark circles beneath her eyes. Two days after, their progress toward Redcliffe halts completely at her fellow Warden's insistence: Adhara needs rest. 

“Sten,” the white-haired mage calls, and he ceases pacing and watching the Wardens to see what she wishes. He is handed a cup of hot liquid that smells vaguely bitter. “Have her drink that.”

The qunari sits beside Adhara beneath her chosen tree, well away from the rest of the party members. They have been unable to get her near her bedding. “Drink this,” he orders, and wraps her hands around the mug. 

She sniffs it. “Oh, thank the Creators.” 

“What is it?” he asks, watching her take several long swallows.

“Willow bark tea. Painkiller. My blood has been burning all day.”

“Are you ill?”

She shakes her head and drains the cup. “No, I'm a Warden.” 

Sten scowls and ceases talking. She catches his facial expression and apologizes. “Let's just say our powers come with a price. The archdemon has been screaming in my head all night, and during the day....” she trails off. “We're ignoring a call that darkspawn can't. And it _hurts_.” 

“People choose to be Grey Wardens, knowing all this?” That seems contrary to what he has seen of the non-qunari thus far.

“People choose to be Wardens and then find the details out later,” she spits. “And I didn't even choose.”

Ah, trickery. That makes more sense. “I thought that all Fereldans chose their path.” 

“That doesn't mean we don't have a sense of duty. I am doing this for...” she shakes her head. “For my clan. They sent me away and told me to become a Warden.” She drains the mug and leans back against the tree trunk.

“You did not want to leave them,” he observes.

“Not at all. The _shemlen_ are loud, and their cities stink, and.... But the keeper told me to go.” She glances sideways at him. “What about you? Why are you here, of all places?”

“Duty. I was told by the arishok to come to Ferelden and answer a question.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And that answer is with us?” 

“Perhaps.” Though he is beginning to doubt it. “We will see.”

She makes a thoughtful noise. “What was the question, then?” 

“'What is the Blight?'”

“That's an easy one.” Adhara sighs and rises to her feet. “The Blight is a _nightmare_.”

“That will hardly be a sufficient answer for the arishok.” He tilts his head slightly to look up at her. Odd, how different she looks from this angle.

“Is he expecting one soon?”

“...Yes.”

“You know that if you need to leave, you can, right?”

He shakes his head. “I can't go back.” 

Any of the humans would have demanded elaboration. To his surprise, she merely smiles. “Well, then stay here with me. It's been good to have you along.” 

Sten stands beside her and stares quietly at the top of her head until she raises her face to look at his. “What?” 

“Thank you,” he replies. “You are not as callow as I thought.”

“Hmmm.” Adhara steps closer and studies his face intently, eyes narrowed, brows lowered in concentration. “Hmmm. No, you're still pretty infuriating.”

For the first time since coming to in the farmhouse near Lothering, he feels himself smiling. 


	4. “If I were indeed hostile, you would be bleeding.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T for suggestive dialogue and qunari rodeo  
> Word Count: 2,930  
> Characters: f!Mahariel, Sten, Leliana, Alistair, Wynne, Morrigan, Zevran, and a hair tie of unusual strength.  
> Summary: Adhara finally finds Sten's snapping point, and the two of them go toe-to-toe at Haven.

**Chapter Four** : “If I were indeed hostile, you would be bleeding.” 

 

 

Sten grumbles and pulls another shirt over his head, but all that appears to accomplish is to make his arms feel even colder. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the overbearing mage watching him intently. Rather than chancing her taking his desire for a blanket as proof that he does, in fact, need a colorful knit cloak, he strides for the fire and sits as close to it as possible without burning himself or inhaling smoke. 

Adhara joins him a moment later. “And how are we liking the mountains?” 

“Remind me why were are here,” he replies, and the Templar nods violently.

“Yes, do. Most of this sodding country is warm, and yet you've managed to find _snow_ for us.”

The elf frowns and crosses her arms. “You're the one who put me in charge, Alistair. Though I've never seen a city, have no real understanding of _shemlen_ politics, and everyone we've spoken to so far tries to defer to you anyway.” 

“But I'm not a leader!”

“And I'm doing the best I can. So,” she continues, shifting to face Sten once more, “to answer _your_ question, we're here because I thought saving the life of the man who raised my fellow Warden was a good thing.”

Again, she has decided to steal the duty of another. “But this does not help us fight the darkspawn.” 

She shrugs. “I'm told that if he lives, he'll fight for us. Unlike many other lords, he lost no troops at Ostagar.” 

No, Adhara is no soldier. A soldier would be leading them toward battle, not away into the mountains. 

“Gods above, it's cold, though,” she mutters, and proceeds to sit in the middle of his lap as though it belongs to her. He tenses instantly and stares down at her in confusion.

Not a soldier. She hardly weighs a thing; how she manages to move in her armor is beyond him. How can she fell enemies with no bulk to put behind her blows? He scowls as she looks up at him. “What are you doing?” 

“Yes, what are you doing?” the witch echoes. “Some of us are still eating.”

The elf's eyes widen. “Have none of you any survival sense? I'm cold. He's cold. This keeps us warm.” 

“Why not let me knit you a cloak?” asks the white-haired mage.

“Because I wouldn't be able to wear it with my armor and shield, anyway,” she retorts.

“I am not a blanket,” Sten mutters. “Go sit on Alistair.”

“Hey!” The Templar looks up from his soup indignantly.

“You're larger,” she frowns, tilting her head back to look up at him again. “I'm less likely to make you _colder_.” She catches his scowl and grins. “How can you not know this? You're a soldier, Sten! Do qunari freeze to death often?”

“Hardly. Seheron never sees snow. The winters are as cool as your summers.” Vashedan. He _is_ less cold.

“Oh.” But she makes no move to exit his lap, and he resigns himself to her presence. Maraas shokra. _There is nothing to struggle against_. At least the others appear to find her actions as strange as he does.

The priestess finishes her supper and smiles toward Adhara. “I was thinking... I know a Dalish tale, and I have been wanting to share it. But it occurred to me that it might have lost a great deal in its journey to Orlais, and I do not wish to offend you by telling it improperly.” 

“Honestly, it's unlikely I'd know,” the elf admits.

“Well,” she continues, “I think that it would be more fun for _you_ to tell a tale tonight. None of us know much about the Dalish, and I love collecting new stories.”

Adhara's back tenses. “I'm a hunter. I know no tales.” 

“None at all?”

“I don't have a head for remembering stories. The _hahren_ used to shout at me about it, in fact.”

“Then... tell us the story of your scars,” the priestess suggests. “That is a hunting tale, yes?”

“Hmmm.” Adhara rubs at her forearm absently. “Fine. There's no harm in telling that, I think.”

Sten hopes that she will leave his lap, but she does not, and so they all look his way and listen as she speaks about her clan. He is surprised to learn that the Dalish way of life makes sense: the children are raised almost communally, taught by the storytellers, and then assigned roles by the keeper when their skills have come clear. Adhara had always been brave and strong, so they made her a hunter, meant to both feed and protect the clan. 

“These scars are from the wolf pack that earned me my _vallaslin._ ” When the others stare at her blankly, she touches the violet lines crossing her face. “The keeper gives us our tattoos when we come of age. Hunters prove that they're of age by tracking and killing an animal. It must be a predator, and they must be alone.”

“Our clan,” she smiles, “has a long tradition of hunters choosing wolves as their proof kill. Naturally, I wanted to be no different, and so I sought out the pack that had been terrorizing our _halla_.” More confused stares, but she ignores them this time. “I brought down the alpha female with a single shot to the heart.”

Adhara bares her arm and shows the scar. “This bite is from her mate, which I hadn't noticed was stalking me. And the marks along my spine are from the back claws of the one who jumped on me and tried to bite through my neck. I returned to my clan, bloody, weak, and carrying _three_ pelts.” 

“Reckless,” Sten says, and to his surprise she nods.

“Certainly, but it's an excellent reminder of the lesson I learned.”

“And that was?”

Her head tilts backward so that her eyes meet his. “Don't be so focused on the goal that you lose sight of the dangers beside you.” 

Hmph. A lesson the Fereldan king would have done well to learn. But saying so will only antagonize the Templar. 

“Do you think the Dalish storytellers would share their tales when we find them?” asks the priestess.

Adhara shakes her head. “I'm sorry. They wouldn't. Even if you're with me, you'll still be a _shemlen_.” 

“Too bad,” she sighs. “I find the Dalish ways fascinating.”

She stiffens again. “They're not meant to _fascinate_ you.” 

“No, I misspoke. Thank you for sharing so much about yourself, Adhara.”

They spend the rest of the evening in relative silence; the elf remains in his lap, dozing sleepily like a child. Odd, that this should be an accepted practice among the guardians of her clan, cold weather or no. But she stirs the instant that he becomes truly restless and moves to her bedroll. 

“No,” the priestess says. “You're _not_ sleeping outside of a tent tonight. Share with me, Adhara.”

Sten is herded into Alistair's in a similar fashion, and he spends much of the night thinking and trying not to breathe too deeply. She is not a warrior. She was not meant or trained to lead. The other Warden is even more inept at it, and so they are drifting while the Blight worsens. The only true leader among them is himself, but though Adhara would likely be happy to pass the role off, the others would need convincing. This was _her_ party; they followed her leadership. How could he convince them that he was more competent? 

The answer comes to him the next morning when they reach their destination and Sten learns that they have fled the Blight to locate a backwater village which appears to be entirely populated by chickens and oxen. He puts a hand to Adhara's shoulder and stops her as they enter the center of town. 

“Is it your plan to go north until it becomes south and approach the archdemon from the rear?”

She smiles over her shoulder at him. “You have to admit that it will never see it coming.” 

“True. It will be too busy destroying what is left of this country.”

The smile fades, and she turns to gaze up at him, arms crossed. “Speak your mind, Sten.” 

“You told me when you freed me that you were fighting the Blight.”

 “We are.”

 “No. We are climbing a mountain to seek the ashes of a dead woman. Would it not simply be easier to kill and burn one of the mages?”

“No, 'twould not,” Morrigan interjects, staff in hand, but Adhara stops her with a look.

“We've talked about this, Sten. I've told you how this helps us fight the Blight.”

“You have. And your assessment is incorrect. I cannot allow us to flee from battle and continue on in this fashion.”

“Thankfully, it's not your decision.”

“Yes, it is. I'm taking charge.”

To his surprise, she laughs at him and draws her blade. “You may certainly try.” 

The others scatter, and Sten stares down at her, confused. She is half his size. No, worse: she is the size of his sword. This must be for the sake of the others; if he defeats her, then they will be willing to follow. Surely she does not believe that she can— 

Parshaara. Sten answers her battle shout with a yell of his own and draws his blade. Her eyes narrow as he charges, sword raised, and prepares to knock her out with a single swing. But the blade hits dirt, and his teeth grit at the impact. He sees movement from his right side and ducks out of habit, moving himself directly into a shield swing and nearly knocking himself senseless. 

Perhaps there is some advantage to being small, he grudgingly admits, rolling sideways to avoid her next swing. While she is unbalanced, he knocks her over, and uses the chance to pull himself off of the ground. 

She is already standing. How is she already standing? Vashedan, she is faster than he was prepared for. She blocks another blow with a grimace, stumbling backward as splinters of wood fly from her shield. He pulls back as though preparing to swing again, then brings his pommel crashing down as she takes the bait and steps inward. Metal rings, and she cries out as he knocks her helmet backward off of her head. It bounces along the ground, and she steps with it, putting distance between them again. She yanks out the remains of her ponytail with a shriek before returning her attention to him, hair loose around her shoulders. 

Sten watches her settle into a more defensive stance and realizes with bemusement that she is smiling. He feints, attempting to get her to charge again, but she answers him with a frustrated shout and holds her ground. He works his way closer, seeking an opening, but her shield follows everywhere he moves. 

She surges forward again, and he swings to counter her, but she steps aside at the last instant and allows him to rush past. Before he can regain his balance, she hits him in the back of the neck with her shield-edge, and he crumples to his hands and knees, momentarily stunned. The flat of her blade ricochets off the back of his skull, and he sways dizzily and collapses the rest of the way into the dirt. 

He tries to shake his head to clear it, but there is something keeping—Adhara has him by the ponytail, and is crouched on his upper back. He growls and tries to upset her balance, and is rewarded with a sharp tug and a heel to the back of his neck. 

“Get back in line,” she pants.

“Ebost issala,” he retorts, spitting dirt out of his mouth and beginning to rise.

“That sounds like a no.” More hair-tugging, which he ignores and struggles to his hands and knees. She shifts with him as he stands and is soon kneeling on his upper back and shoulders. Each time he attempts to upset her, she pulls at his braids again to steady herself.

She has dropped her sword and that accursed shield: all he needs to do is get her off of his back, and he will have her. If she had been human, he would have her already, but she is slight, and he is finding it difficult to reach her. He is forced to grab her by the ankles and actually hold her to him to prevent her from jamming her boots into his armor plates and locking his arms at the shoulders. She takes the opportunity to untie his ponytail and wrap the leather around his neck, leaning back and putting her weight on the cord to cut off his air. 

They struggle for a few moments, her weight shifting with his, until he becomes too dizzy to remain standing. Even falling does nothing to shake her balance, and he finds himself back in the dirt with her still on his shoulders. 

“Enough,” he chokes, and she instantly releases his neck, though makes no move to abandon her perch on his back. As he inhales, he is inundated with scent. Sharp mountain air, the dirt below them, the bitter smell of metal, and _her_. She smells of anger, and the blood that is trickling from a nick near her hairline from when he sent her helmet flying. The combination is almost enough to make him dizzy again.

“Who is in charge?” she snarls in his ear. When he does not answer, she pulls at his braids again, and he feels rage begin to boil within his chest.

“You are, Warden.”

Her legs relax so that she is straddling his back, feet on the ground. Her guard is dropping. “If you try something like this again, Sten, I'll ride you up this mountain like a horse,” she hisses. 

Foolish to follow up winning a physical fight with verbal threats. After the hair pulling, he lacks the patience to humor her posturing. Sten lunges to the side, sending her sliding off his back and into the dirt, and pins her to the ground by her own hair. “That is not a tactic that will work twice, elf.” 

The humans are scared. The assassin is worried. But still she glares at him, eyes narrowed in rage, panting heavily. He straddles her stomach and presses her into the dirt. He had killed a family of humans bare-handed, and she was unlikely to be any more difficult to end than their children. Sten waits, staring down at her, expecting fear to flicker to the surface. Any second now, he will be able to smell it, and that will be the encouragement he needs to wrap his fingers around her tiny neck and squeeze. 

But she remains angry; as their breathing steadies, he rises and pulls her to her feet. “Honestly,” she pants, “I've been expecting you to challenge me since the Circle Tower.” She wipes at her forehead and grimaces as she smears a thickening patch of blood. “I've been trying to provoke you into it.” 

Sten passes her helmet over in silence, trading it for his hair band, and begins tying his braids back where they belong. How had she managed to best him, as small as she is? In the past, he has only fallen to warriors or darkspawn. Perhaps the blood she ingested—no. She cannot be a darkspawn _and_ dedicated to fighting the Blight. That leaves only one explanation. 

He does not speak again until they sit down together at watch, even farther into the mountains than before, with the ruined temple he is told is their destination looming before them. “I was wrong,” he sighs, and scowls when she smiles at him happily. 

“So, I'm a woman?”

“Yes.”

“ _And_ a soldier, perhaps?”

“...Yes,” he admits. He had been raised to believe such a thing impossible. “Though it makes no sense to me.”

Adhara takes the opportunity to climb back into his lap, bringing with her the scent of sweat and blood. “One wolf down. Leading isn't much different than hunting, as it turns out.” 

She rubs at the scars on her arm absently, and Sten rests his back against the rock behind him and considers. “The tale was a warning?” 

She smiles. “You're not as inscrutable as you think, my friend. Did you know that I'm the only one in the party who can tell when you're smiling?” 

“I would have preferred to know that earlier,” he replies, and scowls when she laughs at him.

The next morning the assassin steps before Adhara with a merry grin as Sten shoulders his pack and prepares to follow her lead. “I have been thinking, my Warden, and if you still wish to ride someone up the mountainside, I would be happy to oblige.” 

“Shut up, Zevran,” she retorts, and Sten shakes his head in disgust. So he was the wolf who came at her from the side, and the assassin the one she shot through the heart before it could put up a fight. Which of the party, then, does she think is the wolf who strikes from behind?

Adhara scans everyone with her grey eyes, then takes the lead. “Let's get this over with. I want to get off this mountain.” 


	5. “I like swords, I follow orders; there's nothing else to know about me.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Word Count: 1,250  
> Characters: f!Mahariel, Sten, Leliana, Alistair, Wynne, Morrigan, Zevran, and Asala.  
> Summary: Adhara reunites Sten with his sword, and the two of them muse about home.

**Chapter Five:** “I like swords, I follow orders; there's nothing else to know about me.” 

 

 

Adhara announces that they are traveling from Redcliffe to the Frostback Mountains to the sound of angry groans. None of them wish to see more snow, least of all Sten, who is growing tired of the elf using him as her armchair in camp.   


“I don't want to see more snow either,” she frowns. “That's why we're getting it out of the way now.” She shoulders her pack, and they follow obediently. In three days' time, they are nearly freezing to death at night again, but not even the Templar mentions the cold. In fact, the two Wardens have ceased bickering almost entirely. Dinners at camp have been nearly tolerable as a result.   


They take the pass to Orzammar at dawn on the fourth day, pausing only long enough to engage a band of mercenaries that are foolish enough to attempt to kill the Wardens. Outside the city gates, they find another group of humans shouting at the gate guard to the city. Rather than becoming involved, Adhara has them pause to browse the vendor booths, and stops cold when she sees some of the wares being plied by a skinny human. “Sten.”   


He walks behind her and glances down to where she is pointing. A week before, he had told her about the massacre at Lake Calenhad, of how his brothers had fallen and he had lost Asala, his sword, his soul, his means of returning home. Either it is fresh on her mind, or she has a good eye, because she has spotted a piece of qunari gear among the trash on display. A helmet, with familiar decorations. A helmet with a nick across the nose-piece from the darkspawn blade that had felled one of his brothers. 

This man is selling the armor of his karashok. 

Sten nearly knocks Adhara over as he lunges toward the shopkeeper, taking him by the shirt collar and dragging him out of his booth and onto the ground before them. “ _Where did you get that_?” 

Within seconds, the man reeks of urine. He admits to scavenging the corpses of his brothers after the darkspawn left them. Only loud shouting from the elf prevents him from ending the human's life at those words, and something in the back of his head continues to urge him to ignore her order, even still. 

“If you can tell my friend where his sword is, I'll have him let you go,” she tells the man, arm resting firmly on Sten's bicep in warning.

“He deserves to die,” he growls, but Adhara shakes her head.

“If you kill him, we'll never find it.”

And so the weasel lives, but Sten has the name and location of the dwarf who bought his blade, and the hope that he might soon be whole again. 

Adhara explains the situation to the others at camp that night, telling them about Sten's sword. “It's at Redcliffe. I know we just left there, but this is the only thing he has left of his past and his brothers, and I'd like to ask you all if we might turn around and get it.” 

“Don't be foolish,” Sten replies. “That is a waste of time. We should focus on the task at hand.”

“The longer we wait,” she replies, “the more likely it becomes that it will be stolen or sold again. I don't want to risk it for something so important.”

To his surprise, the others seem to agree. “Listen to her, Sten,” the Templar urges. “I'd kill for something to remember my fellow Wardens by.” The assassin says something similar about his mother, and the priestess and overbearing mage give their consent to the detour, as well. 

“If it gets us out of the snow, I say we do it,” mutters the witch.

And so they turn around and seek Asala. Everyone appears to be pleased to get away from the cold, and the two Wardens are busy laughing and shoving one another at the head of the line, which appears to be how Adhara attempts to be _friendly_. Sten attempts to show his gratitude for the detour by initiating conversations with the others during their walk, though only Adhara seems pleased by his efforts: when he asks the priestess why she is fighting with them, the discussion quickly turns sour. 

“Sten, _please!_ ” the she implores, coming to a halt and staring up at him. “Haven't you had this conversation with Adhara? I can and do fight, and I'm not trying to be a man!”

The elf smirks but says nothing, and Sten shakes his head. “Adhara is different.” 

“Oh, of all the— you can't be serious!” The priestess puts her hands on her hips and glares up at him. “How is she different?”

“She is Dalish.”

“You can't be serious,” she repeats.

Sten frowns down at her. “The qunari have never seen Dalish elves. It is possible that when the tamassran meet them, they will agree that female Dalish can be warriors. But not female city elves, and not _you_ ,” he finishes. “You are a priestess. And I suggest you not ask my opinion on the mages.” 

“I give up,” she frowns. “It's not worth it.”

“Then we should move on.” He resumes walking and attempts not to dwell on the fact that for once, _he_ is the reason that they are being delayed from their duty.

But as soon as Asala is back in his hands, he decides that it was worth it. Everything seems bearable again. It is because of this elf that he is whole. It is because of this elf that he did not starve in Lothering, and because of her that he will be able to return to Seheron after all once the Blight has been stopped. She may be strange, and a contradiction of what he has been taught, but she has proven herself to be his brother because she understands that fellows-at-arms are more than people one fights alongside: they are family. 

Perhaps not the mages. But he does not mind the Templar, or the priestess, generally. And the assassin is an excellent fighter, though he has an unfortunate tendency to _speak_. They are tolerable; she is kadan. 

When she smiles up at him, he returns it without thinking. “How you found a single sword in a country at war is beyond me.” 

She shrugs. “Try not to tempt the trickster.” When he stares at her in confusion, she elaborates: “We don't question good luck in my clan.” 

“I don't believe in luck.”

“Oh, I wish you hadn't said that,” she frowns. “Now something awful's going to happen. Quick, let's change the subject. What do you want to do now? You can go home, right?”

He nods. “I would rather remain. I gave you my word that I would help you end the Blight.” 

Adhara grins. “Thank the Creators. Without you, I'd just have the _shemlen_ and the lecherous flat-ear.” 

“The arishok will not mind a delay if it gains us a full understanding of the Blight.”

“That's good to know. I wouldn't want to jeopardize your return home now that you are no longer stranded here.” Her grey eyes meet his, and he smiles down at her.

It is strange to not think of Seheron with bitter sadness, and wonderful not to feel trapped within Ferelden any longer. Once this is done, he can _go home_. Adhara is the only one among them who can understand how he feels. “After this is done, will you return to your clan, as well?” 

He expects a smile. Instead, her eyes go dim. “No. Grey Wardens do not cease to be when the Blight ends.” She turns away suddenly and ends their conversation. 

...Vashedan. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Don't tempt the Trickster" has made it into my social circle's slang. Gotta love it.


	6. "I thought that their warriors, at least, would be larger."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sten has a rough go of it in Orzammar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then I resume posting this here. Sorry! >>

Dwarves are such a maddening race. Tiny, needlessly proud, and determined to cling to a partially lost and very broken system that slates people to occupations based upon family, not skill. No wonder the city is in chaos. He is not sure exactly how it became their responsibility to bring order, though he supposes that it should not surprise him.

Less than an hour after gaining access to the city, Adhara enters some sort of competition on behalf of an important dwarf, and he and the rest sit on the sidelines and watch her take down combatant after combatant. Now that he is not on the receiving end, he finds himself capable of enjoying the way she fights. She appears especially fond of smashing her foes in the face with her shield. Amusingly, this often sends the dwarves flying onto their backs. Her style is similar to Alistair's, but she is far less graceless and uses momentum much more effectively. Fascinating, really, the way that she moves.

And then they are sent to kill dwarves on the behalf of other dwarves. They are told that these dwarves are outcasts, animals, but it quickly becomes clear that many of them are better fighters than the so-called warriors that Adhara had just fought. This time they battle them together, but Sten continues to watch her fight, and almost gets himself killed before he realizes that he is distracting himself. It doesn't help that the dwarves are so _short_ ; he has to stoop to swing at them, and soon his back and legs are shrieking in agony. And still they continue on, and even more dwarves oppose them. How have they not taken over the city? Clearly they lack a leader with vision.

A leader without vision, yes, but she does seem to be possessed of an unhealthy love of fire traps. The closer they become to her, the more they encounter, and he soon learns that neither Adhara nor Zevran have any skill at discovering them. She walks right into two of them before outdoing herself and igniting one directly beside a stack of flammable barrels.

“Kadan!” he shouts, catching her to the chest as she is knocked backward by the first blast. He grabs her in his arms and spins her against the wall nearby, curling around her and taking the brunt of the next explosion with his back.

He kneels there, stunned and partially deafened, waiting for the worst of the flames to subside behind them. Her arms are about his neck, holding him low and shielding his exposed skin from shrapnel; she is no stranger to these sorts of blasts after their experience at the Circle Tower.

The heat is uncomfortable, and the air stale, dry, and thick, and his back is angry at the angle after swinging at so many little rogues. But what bothers him the most is that when he opens his eyes he finds himself pressed into the pale skin where her neck and shoulder meet. He inhales in surprise and floods his nerves with her scent. Within seconds his eyes have dilated; everything is too bright, and his pulse races and becomes the only thing his abused ears can hear.

He can't pull away: the fire rages behind them still. So he closes his eyes, relaxes into her neck, and inhales her again.

The light and heat begins to fade on his fifth breath. “—en? Sten,” she says, taking his face in her hands and staring at his eyes. “Are— alright?”

Vashedan. Her face is too close to his. He shakes his head and attempts to clear the ringing from his ears, but his pulse is still racing. “Just stunned.”

“Wynne,” she says, and he feels himself being cast upon. His ears stop ringing, and he is able to pull away from Adhara and rise to his feet.

“Let us move on. I would prefer to be above ground once more.”

Sadly, he speaks too soon. They plan to leave Orzammar after the leader of the dwarf gang is dead, but _not_ to return to the surface. Instead, Adhara informs them, they will proceed further underground, into the remains of the dwarven empire. For Sten, whose back is already aching from stooping and ducking and swinging at dwarves, this is not welcome news. When he mentions his reluctance to venture into caves created by people the size of his legs, Alistair quickly offers to go in his stead.

“No. That's stupid,” Adhara retorts. “You and I are the only Grey Wardens in the country. We can't both be endangering ourselves at the same time!”

“But 'Dhara, I never get to fight—”

“No,” she insists. “You put me in charge, so deal with it. I need you above-ground in case the archdemon moves.”

“I—but we don't—”

Her eyes narrow. “Alistair. The qunari is coming with me. Or would you rather we leave _him_ in charge and go off underground together?”

Sten looks to Alistair, who gives a defeated shrug.

The entire party travels with them through the city to say goodbye and receive final instructions. Sten continues fuming until a short, smelly, and drunken dwarf practically accosts Adhara and insists that he be taken with them. To his surprise, she agrees, and sends Wynne back to the surface with Alistair.

The Templar turns to him as everyone parts ways, staring up at him with a small frown. “Take care of her. And watch that dwarf. He smells like a brewery.” When Sten nodded, Alistair shook his head and walked after Wynne and the women, muttering something about bad luck and mages.

When they reach the entrance to the Deep Roads, the dwarves guarding it stare up at Sten in horror. “I'm not sure we made the mines tall enough for humans,” says the leader. “Let alone you.”

“Well, he can always crawl,” the assassin replies with a smile.

“Qunari do not crawl,” Sten replies.

But in fact, qunari do crawl. When the alternative is remaining trapped behind a minor rock- slide, qunari crawl quite well. Not so well as Adhara, who moves in the front as though she has been a four-legged creature all of her life, but better than the assassin, who is too busy staring at Adhara to watch where he is going. The dwarf, naturally, does not even need to _kneel_.

“Heh. Your giant makes a bronto look graceful,” he slurs at Adhara, and she scowls.

Once they make it through the mines, travel becomes easier. Oddly, the roads underneath the city appear to be needlessly large, especially when considered that these paths were _excavated_. When Sten ponders this, he is told that it was for the golems and war machines that were once used against the darkspawn.

“'Course, then we lost the golems,” the dwarf adds, “and now that we're not trying to retake old thaigs, there's no need for the machines, either, so some places might be a little worse for wear.”

To put it lightly. In the days that follow, what Sten sees gives necessary context to the dwarves of Orzammar: their race is dying. The elves lost their old ways during their enslavement, and if the dwarves are any indication, that likely ensured their survival. Better to forget it all than cling to what is half-remembered at the expense of progress.

Still, he decides not to share this observation with Adhara.

She pushes hard, and they cover great distances and slay countless darkspawn together. One night, he stands beside her over a great trench, staring down at a sea of darkspawn as the call of the beast that has kept the Grey Wardens awake almost every night since he joined them in Lothering echoes through the cavern, and suddenly understands why she has acted the way that she has. Not even the qunari force could counter this alone. His kind lacked the numbers. And if half of the human army had already been decimated....

Adhara was right when she called the Blight a _nightmare_. It had not been flippancy, as he had assumed at the time. This fact becomes more obvious the further they travel, and the more they see of what the darkspawn are capable of doing to those that they capture.

_Abominable. Atrocious, awful, abhorrent._

In many ways, exiting the Deep Roads feels like stepping outside of his cage in Lothering. When they finally leave the city, and he feels wind and hears the creaking of tree branches under snow, he realizes that he has almost forgotten these sounds. The others appear to come to similar realizations. None are as stunned as the dwarf, however, though he refuses to change his mind about accompanying them on the rest of their quest.

Adhara leads them on a hard trek downhill, keeping them walking until well after their usual time to put as much space between them and the city as possible. Only when Alistair stumbles and nearly concusses himself on a rock does she pause and glance back at them.

“That's enough for tonight,” she relents, helping Alistair to his feet, and everyone begins setting up camp. The priestess and Templar see to the fire and dinner while the witch and assassin set up tents for those who tend to use them. The overbearing mage busies herself with making everyone's tasks more difficult, and Sten finds himself seeking refuge with Adhara, who is sorting through their gear.

“I hear water,” she says to no one in particular. “We can all have baths tonight.” “I assume we will be appropriately segregated by gender for once?”

She laughs. “Yes. I'm not about to be naked and in water near Zevran again.”

“A pity,” calls the assassin. “The moonlight would do your wet and naked body credit.”

“Does he rehearse those?” Sten mutters, and Adhara laughs again.

“I'm not going to let him ruin this bath. I can't wait to get the last of the darkspawn and the Deep Roads off my skin.”

Sten feels at his hair, which is matted with cave dust and old darkspawn gore. He is not relishing taking the braids out, but it will not come clean otherwise; the blood has seeped too far into it all. After dinner, he sits before the fire and begins the slow process of loosening his hair while Leliana sings for them. He has two rows unwound when he feels a second set of fingers above his left ear: Adhara is standing behind him.

“I am capable of doing this without help.”

“And I'm too impatient to wait and see what you look like with it down,” she retorts. “I had no idea that it was so _long_!”

He humors her, which turns out to be a mistake: when he returns from bathing, she insists on re- braiding it for him. Her fingers run deftly through his hair, gently but firmly tying it all back again. When she leans over to measure and begin a new row, her hair falls forward and envelops them both with the smell of clean elf. She is warm against his back, and he finds himself hoping that she will crawl into his lap during their watch shift. The Deep Roads hadn't been cold enough to make such a thing necessary, and Sten was moderately infuriated to discover when she stopped that he had become _accustomed_ to it. What is even more maddening now is how much time he spends wishing that she would sit in his lap anyway. He has been battling this and similar nonsensical thoughts ever since the fire trap. The oddest part is that when she is touching him, he doesn't think about her: his mind continues to function normally. But when she isn't close enough to feel or smell, he fixates.

The military branches of qunari society are highly segregated by gender. Sten rarely saw women in Seheron except in shops or on the streets as they performed their tasks; before coming to Ferelden, he had never gotten to know one because they were not part of his life. _Other_ qunari had children and dealt with women on a daily basis. The tamassran who assigned him his role in life and the Qun which gave it purpose dictated that he never needed to, and now he is beginning to see why.

Perhaps women weren't soldiers because they lacked the proper traits. Perhaps it was because they were _distracting_. Long ago, the ashkaari must have realized that it was safer to keep the fighting force male. It is even possible that some qunari women have the skills necessary to fight, but likely that men are more suited to it overall. And so the women do not fight, because when away from their intoxicating smell, the men won't mourn their loss.

Now that he is attuned to it, Adhara does not even need to be touching him for her scent to linger like perfume after she leaves. On countless occasions now, he has found himself lamenting that Fereldans have not yet developed an appreciation for incense. Eventually the smell of darkspawn in the Deep Roads had deadened it, but now she is clean, and his eyes keep drifting shut heavily.

It is an unfortunate mercy when she finishes and everyone separates for watch or bed. Of course she sits watch with him, as is their habit, but she is glad to be outdoors once more and so perches in the lower branches of the tree he is resting against rather than in his lap.

Sten ponders his complex reaction to this choice until Adhara breaks the silence with a sigh of relief. “I thought that I'd go insane if I saw one more rock arch or vaulted ceiling, you know?”

“Yes,” he agrees.

“Or beards,” she adds.

“Is that why the dwarf you brought along as a souvenir lacks one?”

She flings a small branch at his head. “Leave Oghren alone. He's fine when he's downwind and not talking.”

“I have never witnessed those events occur concurrently. Do dwarves smell so strongly to find one another in the dark, I wonder?”

“You'd better be more polite to my people when we get there," she laughs. "Dwarves will challenge you to a duel for an offense. A Dalish will simply shoot you through the throat.”

“I have no intention of being rude to your clan.”

“Well, they won't be my _clan_. Other Dalish.” He hears rustling; she is kicking her legs. “I'm glad we'll be seeing a different clan, actually.”

“Why?”

“If I met mine again, I don't know that I could leave.” He thinks back to their earlier conversation, and glances up at her face. Her eyes are downcast, and her voice when she continues has grown softer. “I didn't want to in the first place, and I miss them. Do you find Ferelden as strange as I do?”

“To put it lightly,” he frowns. “But I was honored to serve the arishok.”

“I didn't leave for the right reasons,” she admits. “I was dying, and becoming a Warden was what would save me. Duncan said he didn't recruit me out of mercy, but the truth is neither of us were happy about it.”

Neither of them speak much after that. Adhara leaves the tree, but rather than resting in his lap, sits beside him and performs minor repairs to her helmet until it comes time to wake Alistair and Leliana for their turn.

When Sten rises the next morning, the assassin is watching Adhara stretch. He tolerates it while he is folding his bedroll, but as soon as the elf begins to actually _leer_ , he rises to loom behind him. “Is that strictly necessary?”

“Am I not allowed to appreciate the beauty of the morning?”

“No.”

“And why not?” Zevran raises an eyebrow. “Don't tell me you're immune to her charms.” “I do my best not to think of them.”

“Ah, you are missing out, my friend.” Zevran turns his head to gaze at her once more and begins ticking off features on his fingers. “Her hips, well-rounded buttocks, and the way the chainmail hugs at her breas—”

“You are not my friend, elf. Go help the witch raze her tent.”

Zevran glowers up at him, but obeys. Once he is out of earshot, Sten marches toward Adhara and scowls when she bids him good morning.

“We should purchase new armor for you.”

She glances down at the chainmail curiously, though appears as oblivious about the way it hugs as Sten had been before Zevran pointed it out. “Why, what's wrong with this?”

If they had met in that armor, he never would have mistaken her for a man. No, she needs something heavier. Perhaps plate. And a helmet with a visor. “You need armor which will withstand your tendency to activate fire traps.”

Adhara sighs. “Fine. We'll get me new armor.

Happy?” “No.”

“Why am I not surprised?” When she smiles, he decides that an answer is unnecessary.

As they walk, he busies his mind with his normal training exercises, but that proves dangerous, as well, because the first object to catch his eye is a stone.

Stone. _Sword, slice. Shudder. Skin, scent, smell, soft._ Parshaara. Another thing that he does not need to think about. Tree, then. _Talk, tongue. Teeth, taste, tender, tiny, tight._

Shok ebasit hissra. Today, struggle does _not_ feel like an illusion. And when the breeze picks up, whipping Adhara's ponytail behind her, Sten realizes that it is only going to get worse.


	7. "Happiness is fragile. Nothing can be built on it that will last. Only duty endures."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adhara lets her mouth run away with her.

Sten sits beside the others, sharpening Asala while they discuss their current destination over dinner. 

“So what do you think we'll need to save the Dalish from?” Alistair grins, glancing toward Adhara, who is meticulously dissecting an orange. “We've got civil war and demons covered. Maybe they'll have a plague, or lost children to find?” 

Adhara scowls and ceases sucking juice from her fingers to speak. “Nonsense. My people can handle themselves. If anything, it'll be nice to finally show up somewhere, receive a promise of aid, and then _leave_.” 

“That would be nice,” the Templar agrees. “We're so close to having a proper army to fight the darkspawn.” 

Adhara tosses an orange peel at his ear. “'That would be _nice_?'” 

“Look, all I'm saying is that everywhere else has been a complete disaster. I'm just preparing for the worst.” 

She shakes her head. “You _shemlen_ never give my people enough credit.” When the Templar bristles, she grins. “Ha! Got you.” 

“Adhara.” The priestess looks up from tuning her lute and frowns. 

“I hate it when you do that, 'Dhara” Alistair sulks. “I can never tell when you're joking!” 

She leans over and ruffles his bangs. “That's what makes it fun.” 

“You're _evil _, you know that?” He grins and shakes his head. “That, and your tattoo makes it impossible for me to tell what face you're making.”__

“That's why we do it, you know. Keep you _shems_ on your toes. This way you'll never see it coming when we lead the city elves in an uprising against you.” 

“Really?” 

“...No.” She glances sideways at the assassin, and they both begin laughing merrily. 

The Templar scowls again. “Why don't you ever torment anyone else?” When he looks at the priestess, she smiles and strikes a chord. “Why doesn't she ever torment _you_?” he asks Sten. 

“She does,” he replies, and returns his eyes to his sword, but it is too late: her attention focuses on him. 

“When do I torture you?” 

The priestess laughs. “When do you not?” 

Sten agreed with her, for once. “Should I remind you of the time you strangled me, or the weeks you spent nearly naked just to spite me?” Though that had not been torment when it occurred. It is only now that he sees her as an equal that the memories prove distracting. 

The assassin frowns. “Perhaps you should torture someone who would be properly appreciative of your efforts. No need to strangle me perhaps, but I wouldn't say no to spanking!” 

Sten latches on to what he desperately hopes is a change of subject. “I'm unfamiliar with that word. Is it a fighting technique?” 

He grins and leans closer than is desirable. “I could demonstrate how it is done, if you like.” Adhara inserts herself forcibly between them. “He _wil_ l kill you, and I won't stop him.” 

So it is something sexual; he should have known. The elves catch his facial expression, and 

Zevran begins to speak again. “Generally, spanking is done as punishment to small children. Though among adults, it can have... other applications.” He smacks at the air before him, hand cupped as though—parshaara. 

“You spend far too much time thinking about sex,” Sten scowls. “And not nearly enough time having it,” he replies. 

“Enough,” Adhara orders. “Alistair can't get much redder. Let's go to bed before he boils over.” 

“A little boiling over is healthy now and then!” the assassin retorts, and is instantly herded away. 

Once everyone is settled into their bedding, Adhara joins Sten at the camp perimeter. “They're getting restless. We've been in the field for too long.” 

“If they were true soldiers, it would not be a problem.” 

She shoves at his shoulder and succeeds in pushing herself a short distance away from him. “We've been over this. They're useful, soldiers or no.” 

“What good is the witch?” 

“Other than the fact that she excels at blowing darkspawn apart? She gives us a common enemy. Without her to unite them, the others wouldn't get along half so well.” 

He is forced to admit that her reasoning is sound, though he privately wonders if traveling with the mage is worth it, even still. Adhara spends the rest of the shift fighting sleep, and he eventually convinces her to retire early: the alternative is bearing her dozing off and falling against his shoulder every few minutes. She retreats to her bedroll grudgingly, but is asleep within minutes of lying down. 

Adhara does not remain so long, however; Sten is used to the nightmares now, but tonight she seems more restless than usual. She tosses, and turns, muttering to herself and flinching periodically. He can hear similar noises from within the Templar's tent, and decides that the archdemon must be speaking. 

Or worse. She jolts awake with a shriek and takes her sword into her hand, running for Alistair's tent. He meets her just outside, face pale. Both of them are panting, eyes wild. 

“Sten, be careful,” she calls to him, pitching her voice low. 

Alistair does not bother to keep his voice down. “It saw us, didn't it? Adhara, it saw us!” “I don't kno—agh!” she crumples to the ground, and the camp descends suddenly into pandemonium. The horrible shrieking noise that gives the tall, clawed darkspawn their name assaults his ears, and as soon as he blinks the camp is full of them. The Wardens are in the middle of a ring, and as the smell of her blood reaches him, he surges forward with a roar. 

The others are awake, and it is chaos; the mages are electrocuting and petrifying without their normal warnings, and so the dwarf nearly gets caught in crossfire. The priestess stands back and fires rapidly, sinking arrows into the twisted flesh of the darkspawn surrounding Adhara. 

As he cuts his way to her, he sees that her shield is gone, and she is clutching at her stomach as she stabs at her enemies. Blood is seeping through the back of her chainmail and making her purchase slick; when she falls, he shouts, drawing the shrieks' attentions toward him. 

Suddenly, there is silence. As soon as it is clear that no more are coming, Sten falls to his knees beside her. 

“Well, that hurt,” she manages, and he holds her off the ground and allows Alistair to remove her armor. 

“Maker,” he groans as he sees her blood-soaked shirt. “How are you not dead, Adhara?” 

“No, don't tempt the trickster.” She scans the camp with half-focused eyes. “Is everyone okay?” 

“Zevran caught a rock to the chest when he accidentally leapt in front of Wynne,” the priestess replies, moving toward them. “She'll be over as soon as his ribs are set.” 

“Idiot,” she groans. It takes Sten several seconds to realize that she means the assassin and not the mage. 

She is freshly healed and grimacing at her ruined armor when a rustling in the bushes catches her attention. The priestess raises her bow, and the mages their staves, but Adhara orders them to stop. 

“N-no, no,” she wails, running toward the figure. “ _Lethallin_?” 

The others are out of earshot, and as a result have no warning when the dark figure attacks. Adhara has slain it by the time they realize what has happened and begin to rush forward. Sten halts when he sees her fall to the ground with a bowed head, but the Templar does not stop until he is behind her. 

She does not turn her head. “Not now, Alistair.” “'Dhara, who—” 

“Look, you sodding _shem_ , I told you to leave me alone!” 

“I—sorry. I'll just. Sorry.” Alistair retreats toward the campfire, shaking his head and gesturing for the others to follow. Sten expects him to look hurt, but instead he turns to the qunari with a worried expression. “Can you go talk to her? She doesn't think you're a... _shemlen_ , so she might actually tell you what just happened.” 

“Did I not hear her say that she wants to be alone?” 

“I don't think that's a good idea,” he replies. “I just got a good look at that thing's face, and I... think that's who she was talking to in the Gauntlet, at Haven. Whoever he is, he's important to her, and she just killed him.” 

Adhara ignores him when he calls her name. He has to kneel and place his hand on her shoulder to elicit a response, and even then her voice is uncharacteristically soft. “Go away.” 

“No.” 

She whirls on him, and he is surprised to see tears streaking her face. He has never seen her cry. The priestess, yes, and even the witch, when she was shot through the gut by a poisoned arrow, but never their leader. “Why? Do you think this is really the time to tell me that crying is something a soldier does not do, and that I'm too weak to lead? Can't you wait to lord the fact that you're emotionally dead over me, or does now really seem like the time to discuss qunari superiority?” 

Sten blinks and sits fully beside her, taking care not to look at the... thing... she has cradled in her lap. He still towers over her, but he is at least able to see her face more clearly. “You are not one to cry needlessly, kadan. Tell me who he was.” 

Her eyes widen briefly, and then she appears to fold in on herself, crumpling around the figure with blackened skin that looks like an elf but smells like a darkspawn. “He was my _lethallin_. My brother, my hunting partner.” 

“Your kadan?” 

She smiles weakly. “If your brothers at Lake Calenhad were kadan, then yes, I guess. We grew up together. We got in trouble with the _hahren_ together, and we got sick together.” 

Adhara explains in halting phrases about a mirror, and falling ill, and the disappearance of her kadan. “Duncan said he was beyond help, even though I had fought against the sickness for days and was fine. He said that even if he were found... but you saw those things in the Deep Roads,” she says in a rush, looking up at him. “He's not even close to them, not yet, and it's been months. If I had found him, I... I....” 

“Kadan,” he begins, but she cuts him off. 

“We might be Wardens together. I might have saved him. But I trusted a shem and abandoned my best friend and....” Her voice fails her, and she takes a deep breath. “And then he would have died alone at Ostagar among a bunch of _shemlen_ , or he'd die in thirty years. If I guess like this I'll go insane, I will.” 

“My Warden,” comes a soft voice from behind them, and they both turn to see the assassin approaching. “We should bury him before we move on, no? This friend of yours?” 

Adhara sighs. “I suppose that's a small mercy of all this.” 

So the Dalish bury their dead. Sten finds that strangely barbaric, but offers his aid all the same. “Tell me what should be done for him.” 

“W-what? Oh. I need a sapling.” When she sees his confusion, she elaborates. “A small tree. Alive.” 

“Very well.” 

Sten leaves her to venture into the woods. It takes a time to find a suitable tree, and even longer to tear it from the ground. This gives him ample time to realize what she meant when she called him _emotionally dead_. But of all of them, she alone could read his expressions well enough to understand when he was smiling. How is it possible, then, that she thinks he does not feel, especially after their conversations about home and clan? It is likely that he is rougher with the tree's excavation than is strictly necessary, but most of its roots remain intact. 

The sun is rising when he returns, sapling in tow. The mages are cooking food and offering the others water. The Templar and the priestess are digging a hole, and Adhara is sitting under a nearby pine, smelling strongly of blood, darkspawn, and the assassin, who has an arm around her and is running his fingers over her hair. 

He had intended to sit beside her until it was done. Instead, he gives the tree to the dwarf and retreats back into the woods.


	8. “Qunari are most dangerous because we are thinking men and not unthinking force.”

It would be nice to travel for a day without running afoul of bandits. The road to the Brecilian Forest appears to be a favorite haunt of theirs: in two days, they have killed at least twenty opportunists. For the most part, they are not even real soldiers, but mere scavengers who prey on refugees streaming from the Blight-infected southlands. The priestess and the Templar enjoy cleansing the roads, but Adhara has been listless since the shrieks attacked their camp. 

The assassin has taken it upon himself to become her shadow, though she seems as indifferent to his presence as she does to the enemies she fells with her blade. This does nothing to deter him: at night he brings meals for her, rubs her shoulders, pets her hair. She tolerates his coddling much better than Sten, who does not trust his intentions. He also does not like having to sit watch with her while she is covered in his scent. And so he takes to choosing rocks where she cannot comfortably join him. If this annoys her, she gives no sign. 

Or, perhaps he is not paying close enough attention. “What's _wrong_ with you?” she snarls three nights later, climbing pointedly into his lap and putting them both in danger of falling over. 

"You are foolish to trust the assassin." 

There is a long pause, and then she bursts into a fit of giggles. "I didn't expect that answer! I know he's using this as an opportunity to seduce me with kindness. I'm not an idiot." She tilts her head and stares upward at his face. "But why do you care?" 

This question makes him feel oddly defensive. "Why do you encourage him?" 

Her laughter fades. "Because I'm sad, and lonely, and you've been avoiding me since we buried Tamlen even though I thought we were friends." She sighs and relaxes into his lap. "I can't ask Alistair for a hug, and Wynne's platitudes don't make me feel better." 

He is quiet for some time, but she makes no move to leave his lap. Finally, he ceases attempting to not be pleased at her proximity, and manages to answer her initial question more honestly. "...I am _not_ emotionally dead." 

"I know," she murmurs, and leans back against his chest. As she adds “I'm sorry,” her fingers link with his. Her entire hand is barely larger than his palm. 

Sten gets very little sleep that night. 

“The Sten is in a foul mood today,” observes the assassin the next morning, wedging himself between the qunari and Adhara as they continue their trek east. 

“Annoy someone else.” Behind him, the priestess is teaching the Templar a song that is either about a great war, or cabbage, and it would be a mercy to his head if they were stopped. 

“Ah, but no one else is as fun, nor quite so large a target.” “Zev,” Adhara frowns, and both men bristle. 

Any retorts, and the singing, are halted by an arrow. They have been ambushed by yet another group of bandits, and as Sten turns to face them, drawing Asala, he comes face-to-face with another qunari, walking toward them in heavy armor. 

“Oh, come on!” Alistair cries. “How is giving a sodding qunari a _mace_ fair?” “I think I'll be sitting this one out,” the assassin frowns. 

“Your Maker's ass you will, flat-ear,” hisses Adhara, “unless you want me to be very mad at you later.” 

“I take it this isn't the kind of angry I'd enjoy? No? Blast.” He draws his knives and melds into the shadows. 

They do not understand. They think the creature before them is actually a qunari, which almost angers him more than its presence does. How can they not tell that it is hollow, a mockery, a disgusting shell? Sten's shout of rage is enough to draw the attention of every approaching bandit _except_ the Tal'Vashoth fiend, who instead chooses Adhara as his target. 

Coward, to select the tiny, unarmored foe. The Templar intercepts it and holds it off of Adhara, who falls back and begins sniping the bandits surrounding Sten with her bow. The forest rings with the sound of metal on wood, and by the time Sten moves to aid him, the Templar is panting and has fallen into a completely defensive stance to protect against the fiend's mace. Sten surges forward, sword swinging, and enters the brawl. He will enjoy putting this one down more than any darkspawn. 

But Sten quickly learns that he has been too long among the short races. He no longer ducks when he should, having grown accustomed to blows that can't possibly reach his head. And it is a warm day, so he is not wearing his helmet. Because of this, he takes two mace-blows to the face at the outset of the fight, and feels his vision growing dark. 

When he comes to, the overbearing mage appears to have healed him; his skin is crawling with magic, and the qunari is holding off both the Templar and the assassin, though two arrows in its thigh have slowed it somewhat. He picks up his sword, charges back into the fray, and beheads the fiend before falling over again and clutching at his head. 

“Sit down,” orders Adhara, guiding him to a nearby tree and pulling on his forearms until he obeys. His ears spend a few minutes ringing as the others sort through the bandits' gear. Afterward, they appear to resume walking. 

“—ll be right there,” she tells them as she kneels in front of Sten. “I want to make sure his skull's not cracked before I let him move.” 

No. The others are leaving. It is unwise to travel away from the main group. He shakes his head and attempts to pull away from her. “I do not need coddling. Let me stand. We should be moving.” As he speaks, the worst of the dizziness fades, but she will not be dissuaded. 

“Sten, hold still.” She presses him by the shoulders, silently ordering him to rest against the tree he is propped against. He swipes at her hands irritably, attempting to brush her away. “No, stop. Let me see your teeth.” 

“Why?” 

“You took a mace to the face. One could have broken.” Adhara straddles his legs, rising onto her knees to bring her face level with his. “Come on. Teeth, now.” 

“Qunari teeth do not break,” he grumbles. 

“I'll put that with 'women can't fight,' and 'qunari don't crawl,' if it's all the same to you.” She takes his face in her hands and leans in close. 

He can ignore her warmth, and how close she is to his face. But with his mouth open, and her fingers alternately pressing down on and pulling back at his lips, he is forced to breathe through his nose. The last of the pain from the mace fades from his nerves and is replaced with the smell of her hair, skin, and sweat. A deeper breath as her fingers slide from his lips to his jawline, feeling gently for injury. 

She is _very_ warm. And her face is so close to his. He watches her eyes as they intently study his mouth, and sees for the first time flecks of blue amidst the grey. When she licks at her lips in concentration, he takes her shoulders in his hands and swallows. 

“Adhara.” 

“Hmm?” Her eyes flick upward to his as her hands slide down to rest on his chest. She's smiling, but that fades as soon as she meets his eyes. “What's wrong?” 

Parshaara. 

Sten pulls her against him, shifting his hand into the small of her back, and presses his mouth to hers. He can see her eyes go wide, and hear her gasp of shock, and feel the tension that runs down her body against his hands and legs. For a moment he finds himself thankful that her armor has been ruined and they have yet to find a replacement, but any hint of guilt at being glad that his commander is wearing no protective gear fades when he feels warm wetness against his lips. Her tongue. 

Odd, that the sensation should be so pleasing. He opens his mouth for her and growls when her arms wrap around his neck. As she gasps again, he loses the last of his restraint and lowers his face to taste the skin of her neck. His enthusiasm pushes her backward, and when she is forced to brace herself against the ground she speaks his name once. 

It registers, barely, but it is delicious and breathy and only makes him want more. He overwhelms her completely, pushing her back into the dirt by her shoulders, and traces the outline of her ear with his tongue before pausing and listening to the way she is panting beneath him. 

“Sten,” she repeats. “Wait, what are—” he tastes her neck again, and her fingers bury into his ponytail, tugging hard until he reaches her collarbone. This time, she actually groans, and the sound makes his eyes shut heavily as he breathes her in again. 

“What are you doing?” she manages before his teeth elicit a gasp. A dull voice in the back of his mind is warning him to be gentle: she is smaller than he, and will likely bleed or bruise with what he would consider normal pressure. But it is difficult for him to restrain himself; his fingers tighten around her wrists, he nips at her shoulder, and presses against her so that she can't bring her knees up to shove him away. Seconds later, she appears to have changed her mind, and is arching into him suggestively instead—if he didn't have this _armor_ on he would actually be able to feel her— 

“Warden?” 

Sten and Adhara freeze as one and turn their heads toward the source of the sound. If ever the assassin had made a case for his death, this was it. They struggle to their feet, she wiping delicately at her mouth with one hand, and have enough time to brush dirt off armor and clothing before he calls again. 

“Here, Zev,” she gasps, then takes a deep breath to steady her voice. 

He follows her voice and steps into view from between two nearby trees. “They were worried you'd have trouble getting the qunari back on his feet, and so decided to send the _other_ elf to you for aid.” 

Yes, that makes perfect sense. More likely that he wanted to adhere himself to Adhara's side again. “I'm fine,” Sten scowls. “I was just...dizzy.” 

The assassin shrugs. “I'll go tell them that, and come back to wait with Adhara for you to recuperate.” 

Adhara shakes her head and points toward the path, turning her back to Sten and the assassin. “No, no. He's fine. We'll all walk back together.” As she begins moving, his eyes are drawn to the sway of her hips within her trousers, and he feels his pulse race again. Think of the Qun. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. _The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. The tide rises, the tide falls—_

...Vashedan. Her hips are swaying to the rhythm of his thoughts.


	9. "We will never speak of this again."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

Denerim makes it clear that it is the capital of Ferelden: where the other cities only smell, it reeks; where people gather elsewhere, here they throng; and everywhere, of course, there are dogs. Dogs and mud, and dogs covered in mud, and children covered in mud playing with dogs. In more mud. Adhara appears as horrified as Sten, even though this is not their first visit, but the others seem oddly at home amidst the clutter and the filth. Tension eases from their shoulders, and even the witch seems more pleasant. Overwhelmed, but pleasant. 

The assassin leads them all to an inn which he assures them is relatively nice, but the instant he walks in with Adhara behind him the bartender looks up from his post. “We don't serve knife- ears here.” 

“Huh. Must be new management!” the assassin says. 

More of this. They had dealt with this when they attempted to join the merchant caravan they had traveled with to get here. After being waylaid by bandits _again_ , it was decided that rather seek out the Dalish, they would stop in Denerim to resupply and find new armor for Adhara. The leader of the merchants asked Adhara where she'd stolen her sword from, and she punched him in the face and then asked if he had any other questions. By the end of that night, not a single human in the caravan doubted the existence of the Dalish elves, and Adhara had been smiling perhaps more widely than usual. 

Now, she turns that same smile on the bartender. “Yes, you do.” 

A tall man by the door is motioned over. “Come on, little lady,” he rumbles, crossing his arms and letting his tattoos bulge conspicuously. “Let's go outside without a fuss.” 

Sten can't help but be impressed by how quickly she has him floored and under her boot. While he spits blood, she smiles at the bartender again. “A round of your best ale for the house, please.” 

And that is how she wins the favor of the inebriated human patrons while one of their own twitches and bleeds beneath her. The bartender she wins with her coin, and soon they have a corner table, what passes for good food in Ferelden, and three rooms reserved: one for the women, one for the men, and one for Sten, who is deemed “too large to share a bed.” 

He doesn't mind. A night to himself will be a welcome respite after the noise of the caravan. Traveling in such a sizable group meant that they didn't have to stand watch themselves, which he suspects was a large part of why Adhara threw in with them in the first place; they have not spoken alone since he kissed her. Around the others she is still pleasant to him, but he has caught her giving him a calculating stare more than once. 

Tonight she is sitting between him and Alistair at the table, warm, and close, and yet radiating a chill that discourages him from attempting conversation. 

“I'll be getting new armor tomorrow,” she tells the group after she assigns rooms. “You're free to do as you like, so long as the Watch doesn't catch you and I don't end up owing anyone money.” 

“What are the chances of borrowing a few gold, Warden?” asks the assassin. 

“A few _gold_?” 

“Yes. I want to walk into a brothel and not leave until I have to crawl out on my hands and knees, weeping from exhaustion.” 

She rolls her eyes and tosses him two sovereigns. “That should be enough for five whores. If you can survive that, I'll be amazed.” 

“What if I simply take on all five at—” 

“No,” the Templar interjects. “No. I don't want to hear this.” 

“Tsk, tsk,” the assassin replies. “That's the wrong reaction entirely. Perhaps you should come along!” 

Sten leaves the table once the elf turns his attention fully upon the Templar, thankful that he will not be in their room tonight. The bed in his room is too short, but it is better than solid ground and twigs, and it does not take him long to fall asleep. 

Unfortunately, he is in the room _beside_ the Templar and assassin, and the walls are thin enough that he is not spared listening to the end of their conversation, which has devolved into a full- blown argument by the time they retire. He wakes to the sound of drunken shouting through the wall and instantly wishes he were outdoors where he could simply take his bedroll further from their tents. 

“No, Zev, I'm not sharing a bed with you!” It is as though the wall is not there. Sten can even hear the man _swaying_. 

“And why not?” An ominous rustling sound. “I am lovely and warm, and even clean!” 

“Because you just spent the past half-hour trying to kiss me.” 

“Would you rather I spooned you, then?” 

“... _Maker_.” The Templar trips and slams into the wall, and Sten rises from his bed with a sigh. 

“It is either me or the dwarf, my fine human friend.” 

“Just....” He pauses. “Keep your hands where I can see them, alright?” 

“That lends you less safety than you might think.” 

“Augh!” 

Sten decides to return to the common room until they have stopped. He takes his sword out of habit and re-enters the hall, glad to hear little sound coming from the bar. There are only two people still awake, in fact, when he enters: the bartender, who is wiping down tables, and Adhara, who is nursing a glass of beer. He is relieved that she beckons him over and saves him the necessity of deciding whether to approach or sit on the other end of the room. When he stands beside her chair, she gives him another calculating stare. 

“Nice shirt.” 

Sten is not wearing one, and so shrugs and sits across from her. “The others woke me on their way to bed.” 

“Be glad you left when you did,” she groans. “Alistair got drunk and kissed Leliana, and then Zevran got offended that he didn't get one too, and next thing I knew Oghren had no trousers on and I was ordering everyone to bed.” 

“The Templar and the priestess? I am hardly surprised.” 

“It makes an odd sort of sense,” she agrees, then takes a long swallow from her tankard. “Which reminds me. Aren't I a little short for you?” 

“Yes.” He stares down at her grey eyes and her mouth, curved in the slightest hint of a smile. Neither of them have armor on. If he kissed her again, he would be able to press her against him and feel her react with hardly any barrier at all. 

Adhara licks her lips, opens her mouth to speak—and is cut off by the bartender. “Look, not that I don't appreciate you coming in here, beating up my bouncer, and scaring my clientele, but could you go to your sodding rooms so I can clean in peace?” 

“Stupid _shemlen_ ,” she mutters, and grabs Sten's hand, dragging him from the bar. “Where's your bedroom?” she asks once they reach the hallway. 

He reaches over her head and pushes open a nearby door, and she walks under his arm and lets herself into his room. As he closes the door behind them, she turns and crosses her arms, staring at him thoughtfully. 

“Kiss me again.” 

Sten takes two steps closer and looks down at her. An impossible task when they are both standing. She realizes the problem and pulls on his arms with a laugh. “Get down here, you bleeding qunari.” 

He falls to his knees, bringing her face closer to his, and she spends a moment inspecting him. “Huh. Sometimes I forget that you're not all jaw and chest.” 

“Understandable. To me, you are all hair and tattoo.” 

She smiles and wraps her arms around his neck. “I wasn't teasing. Kiss me again. I want to see how it feels.” 

He needs a place to keep his hands. Resting them on her hips seems right, and allows him to pull her slightly closer so that they may kiss. She leans into him as their lips meet, and so he feels as well as hears her breath when it begins to go ragged. 

When her tongue seeks his again, Sten's heartbeat deafens him; all he hears is blood, and with his eyes closed, her smell seems stronger. He breaks the kiss and presses his face into her neck, inhaling more. Adhara's fingers brush against the back of his neck, and as he tilts her head to get at her throat he feels her speak. 

“You're not to surprise me like that again. I thought we were friends, _lethallin_.” 

“We are.” His tongue traces her collarbone, and she gasps. 

“Shouldn't you be nervous? I thought you'd never done this before.” 

Sten growls in frustration as she pulls him away from her neck by his ponytail. He forces his eyes to open. “I haven't,” he replies, wondering that she should ask at all, considering what she knows of the Beresaad. Untested soldiers were not typically chosen to breed a new generation of qunari. “But why does it follow that I should be nervous?” 

To his surprise, she giggles. “Oh, that's wonderful. _Shemlen_ , and some _elvhen_ , associate sex with maturity. So adults who haven't tend to be... nervous. Like Alistair.” 

Was that what was wrong with the Templar? Parshaara. “I'm not nervous. Why are we still talking?” 

“I guess it makes sense, if the Qun dictates that some people wouldn't ever do these things,” she continues with a smile. Now she is baiting him. “If physical closeness was a sign of adulthood, _you'd_ still be a chi—agh!” He bites at her neck to silence her, and is pleased with the result: Adhara leans into his mouth, encouraging him to continue. 

A delicious thought. But he can't get at enough of her from where she is standing. So he picks her up by the hips and carries her to the bed. 

“Oh, really?” she asks. 

“Yes.” Sten pulls her shirt over her head, allowing himself to finally give in to his desire to see more of her skin. He had not understood when she had paraded it before him during their initial fight. Her trousers come off next, and as an afterthought he removes her smallclothes, as well, leaving her as naked as she had been when he first realized that she was female. She stretches and smiles, pale skin accentuated by the darkness of the bedclothes underneath her. 

So strange, to have such light skin and dark hair. It was as though she had been built his opposite: black hair where his is white, pale skin where his is bronze, and short stature instead of great height. He has been among the Fereldans too long, perhaps; he finds the contrast as appealing now as it was distracting the day she opened his cage. 

Grey eyes meet his, and she smiles again. Smiles, and arches, showing her body off to its best advantage. He accepts the silent invitation and falls beside her on the bed, dwarfing her. 

He wants to feel her skin, and so he does. His fingers begin at her face, tracing the main line of the tattoo as it winds across her cheeks, then brushing against her lips, feeling their firmness as her smile widens at his touch. Her mouth is wide, and pleasant, and succeeds at making her seem friendly even when she is scowling. The others have learned to rely on her tone rather than her expression to read her moods because of the curve of her mouth. Sten leans in and kisses her again, then pulls away when she tries to cling to him and resumes his inspection of her. 

The skin of her neck and shoulders is soft and warm. He follows his fingers with his face, smelling and tasting her as he moves down her body. A lithe, muscular frame that is far stronger than it appears, as he is well aware, but still feminine, with soft curves. When his hands brush against her breasts, she presses against his fingers more firmly. His tongue traces a trail down her stomach, and when he pauses over the dark patch of hair below her belly-button, she spreads her legs with a sigh. 

Her scent has changed; its typical effect is almost narcotic, but now it makes him desperately aggressive. Sten nips at her hips, and thighs, and rakes his nails down her sides, trying to pass some of the sensation on to her. 

It works: Adhara wraps her arms around his waist and pulls him atop her, pressing her mouth to his again. He breaks the kiss and returns to her neck and ears, biting and sucking at a whim, and is delighted when she moans. Yes, _that. That_ is how he feels. More teeth, then, and more pressure, and she pants and clings to him insistently. When she attempts to flip them and moves her mouth to his neck, he holds her to the bed and pulls just out of reach. At her protest, he takes a nipple between his teeth and flicks, and she falls against the bed with a small sound of acceptance. 

But now her hands are at his trousers, unfastening and pulling them down as best she can from her present position. Cold air meets hot skin, and before he can shift to remove them for her, she hooks a foot into the crotch of his trousers and pushes them toward his knees with a knowing smile. The feel of her skin sliding against his inner thigh is enough to make him shiver. Her lips brush against his ear as he kicks his legs free, and she orders him onto the edge of the bed in a voice just loud enough to tickle. 

“Why?” he grumbles. He has no desire to be further away from her naked skin. 

“Just do it, you stubborn qunari.” 

Sten obeys her out of habit: he rises and sits on the edge of the bed, feet resting on the carpeting. Adhara follows and sinks between his thighs. Her fingers tease him through the cloth of his smallclothes, and he dimly notices her eyes widen. She has him completely naked seconds later, and is staring at him with slightly parted lips. 

“That... might be a problem.” 

But he can't answer: she follows up her words by taking him into her mouth. Her tongue dances along his head as her fingers wrap around his shaft and begin stroking, and he is quickly reduced to clutching at the edge of the bed and hissing as he is bombarded by new sensation. 

It is torture. It is worse than pain because pain is not all-consuming. If he were in pain, he would be able to _think_ , but all he can do is grab at her ponytail and bury his fingers in her hair as she continues. He tries to speak, but cannot remember enough of the common tongue, and knows none of the proper words for what he needs to say. And she knows this, and it makes her smile up at him. Smile, and increase her pace. When he begins to gasp and pant, she echoes him; she is resting on her knees with her free hand between her thighs, and is rubbing herself in time with her tongue. 

Pleasure finally loses out to impatience at this realization, and he pulls her to her feet by her hair, tossing her onto her stomach upon the bed beside him. The bed leaves her hips at the perfect height if he is on his knees, so he pulls her legs toward him and lets them hang off the edge. When he kneels between them, she gazes at him over her shoulder with dilated eyes and bites at her lip as he presses his fingers between her thighs. 

_There_. Warmth, and wetness, and a willing half-sob as his fingertips explore her. Sten brings his dampened fingers to his mouth and tastes. Part of him wants to fall to his hands and knees and lick, but her scent makes it impossible for him to wait any longer. He positions himself behind her, leaning over her to hold her to the bed by the back of her neck, and thrusts. 

She might have cried his name, but his nerves are too overwhelmed by relief for him to be sure. He pulls back and thrusts again, and again, relishing the sensation. Nothing has prepared him for her warmth, and how she seems to give around him yet provide enough resistance for his instincts to order he pull out and experience it again. Another cry that might be his name, but he cannot focus on the syllables, only the sound, and a nip at her shoulder serves just as well to summon her voice again. 

“Parshaara!” 

A word that cuts through the fog; he pauses and glances down to where Adhara is panting against the bed, fingers twined into the sheets. “Sten, _please_.” 

He blinks several times, forcing his brain to translate her words and his response. “What?” 

“You've got to go slow if we're both going to enjoy this,” she gasps. “You're a little... more than I'm used to.” 

Vashedan. “Have I hurt you?” 

She shakes her head, which is a lie, because he can see now how her jaw is clenching. “But I want to be able to walk tomorrow. So just follow my lead, okay?” 

He tells her to turn over, so that he can see her face clearly as well as focus on her words. This time when he enters her, he does so carefully, and watches with a strange sort of glee as her expression is overwhelmed by pleasure, the pupils of her grey eyes so dilated that they seem darker. Another slow thrust, and no wincing; as he continues, she brings her hands up and begins to tease at her nipples. Eventually she relaxes around him, and he is able to increase their rhythm. She cries out with each thrust, and he listens intently to make sure there is no hint of pain in her voice. 

Soon, entering her has become effortless, and he has ceased worrying that he will hurt her again. She wraps her legs around his waist and arches her hips toward him with a desperate whimper. He takes her by the thighs, supporting her legs and pulling her slightly toward him with each thrust until her head is tossed back and her voice has become low and hoarse. “Harder,” she gasps. “ _Please_.” 

His body obeys the tone of her voice before his mind has figured out what she is asking him. Adhara is tightening around him again, and her nails are digging into his arms, but just as he is finding the words to ask if she is okay she collapses against the bed with something like a relieved laugh. She opens her eyes and smiles at him hazily, chest heaving, making little animal noises with each exhale. 

Sten's lungs are burning; the room is uncomfortably hot, and it feels as though his nerves are on the verge of shutting down. His mind can't take it, and his eyes won't focus, and her voice has gone distant again. All he feels is her heat and skin, and all he smells is sex. His eyes shut, his teeth clench and bare, and then his mind seems to freeze completely. 

He is still breathing. She is, as well, though she is pressed beneath him where he is collapsed on the bed. Both of them are gasping, and sweating, but when he opens his eyes she smiles and begins to laugh again. 

“I needed that. Creators above, I needed that.” She slides out from under him and rests fully on the bed. After a moment, he joins her, too dazed to speak. 

Sten needed that too, he decides. His nerves insist that he has needed that for years. And now that he _knows_ , he worries that he won't be able to go without any longer. 

But when Adhara presses her face into his chest and inhales his scent for the first time, he realizes that he doesn't care. 

“Maraas shokra,” he murmurs into her hair. _There is nothing to struggle against._


	10. “Either you have an enviable memory, or a pitiable life, to know nothing of regret.”

It would be obvious to Sten that they are nearing Adhara's homeland even if he was privy to none of the details of her life. As they enter the forest, something in her shoulders relaxes, and a tightness around her eyes that he had not even realized was unnatural eases away. Her guard is slipping; no longer is she a stranger in a hostile land. Watching the transformation makes him both homesick for Seheron and guilty for being homesick. He might be gone for a year, perhaps two, but in the end he will be able to go _home_. But Adhara is a Warden now: it is in her blood, and her duty will never let her return to her people. 

If similar thoughts cross Adhara's mind, they do not show on her face. She inhales the air of the forest, touches the leaves of plants unfamiliar to Sten, and follows signs that no one else can see to lead them toward the nearest clan. Mere hours after their entering the woods, they are found by a band of hunters, or a group of soldiers, or—parshaara, he can't even tell if they are all one _gender_. 

The Dalish welcome Adhara with open arms, and by extension tolerate her fellow travelers. The leader of the group they found agrees to take them to the main camp, and he hears Adhara having a hushed conversation with— _her_ , yes, and that armor is most impractical—as they walk toward the center of the Dalish encampment. He lengthens his stride and comes into the middle of Adhara answering a question about him. 

“—s a qunari,” she murmurs to the blonde elf. 

“I thought he was just a tall _shemlen_ ,” she replies, glancing over her shoulder at him with a nervous smile. “I thought qunari weren't real!” 

“If I had a handful of dirt for every time I've heard someone say that about _our_ people, I'd be Keeper of the Dales,” Adhara mutters. 

“Start grabbing then, _lethallan_ ,” laughs their guide. 

Sten was expecting a stranger's welcome, but many of the older elves know Adhara on sight, and those that don't are proud that a Dalish has become a Grey Warden. Unexpected. But he knows before Keeper Zathrian tells them that his clan is in no position to aid them: the camp reeks of blood. Even the humans can smell it. 

Werewolves. Adhara's face falls when she sees the injured hunters, and she turns to Sten in frustration. “Why is this happening now? My clan has been through this part of the forest countless times and never even _seen_ the werewolves.” 

“You're lucky to have avoided the beasts,” replies the keeper. “I refuse to let my clan outside of the camp boundary. We've lost too many.” 

Adhara sighs. “That's not a solution.” 

He recognizes the look in her eyes; they are going to save the Dalish, now. She plans with the keeper, promises to deal with the werewolves and try to heal the infected, and then insists on heading into the woods and bringing back several bucks. When Sten protests, she rounds on him angrily. “They haven't had meat in days, and the hunters won't heal without food.” 

“So you want to speed their transformation, then, by giving their bodies fuel? Better to put them out of their misery.” 

He is not invited along with the hunting party. She takes the priestess and the assassin, bows in hand, and leaves him standing in the middle of a camp of Dalish with three humans. The Templar and the witch glue themselves to his side immediately and busy themselves with sorting their gear. The overbearing mage, however, marches directly toward the circle of tents surrounding the injured hunters. 

“They're not meant for entertainment, _shemlen_ ,” says a nearby Dalish, walking to intercept her. 

“I beg your pardon,” the mage replies. “I'm a healer, and I was wondering if there is anything I could do.” 

The Dalish puts her hands on her hips. “Our nurses and mages are more than capable. We don't need you telling us how to save the lives of our own clansmen.” 

“No, no. I'm sorry. I meant—” he watches her take a deep breath, and then look down at the Dalish pleasantly. “Do you need an extra hand? I promise I'm quite good at following directions.” 

“Shialle, leave her be,” interrupts a tired-looking, grey-haired Dalish who emerges from one of the sick tents. “ _Ma nuvenin_ , outsider. Come here.” 

Thankfully, the witch and Templar keep to themselves, and they spend the afternoon being largely ignored by the elves. When Adhara returns with the assassin and the priestess, a buck slung over each of their shoulders, the mage and the nurse are cautiously swapping healing and remedy recipes. Adhara and the assassin begin cleaning and skinning the carcasses, but the priestess walks toward a male Dalish who has been glaring at the Templar for the past hour with his vivid green eyes. 

“Your name is Sarel, yes?” she asks, sitting on a bench near his. The children he has been singing to stare at her with wide eyes. 

He nods. “What do you want?” 

“I hear that you are a teller of stories, like I am! I was wondering if you had any that you wished to share?” 

At this question, Adhara glances up sharply from the carcass she is gutting by the fire pit, passes her knife on to the assassin, and steps in close. Sarel ignores the movement and gives the priestess a wide smile. “Of course! I'm sure there's much we could learn from one another! After all, someone so wise as to expect success in saving sick elves where their own people have failed must have a vast deal of knowledge that we lack.” 

“ _Lethallin_ ,” Adhara murmurs, but he ignores her. 

“Come, sit!" he continues. "What do you think, children? Should well tell her of the fall of the Dales?” At these words, Adhara's lips press into a thin line, and a small elf in pigtails stares intently at the ground. 

“Oh, I know that one,” the priestess smiles. “It was taught to me in Orlais. Maybe we can compare versions! It would be interesting to see what is different, don't you think?” 

“I imagine very _little_ is different,” he replies blandly. “A history written by victors is surely an accurate one.” 

“I... what?” 

“Sarel,” Adhara interjects, placing a hand on the priestess' shoulder. “Show my companions more respect.” 

“Not everyone adored your parents, _da'len_.” His green eyes meet hers coolly, and Sten feels himself bristling. “Don't order me around like a lackey.” 

“Asking you not to shame your clan with your rudeness has _nothing_ to do with my parents,” she retorts, then pulls on the priestess' hand. “Come with me. I don't want him dropping your defenses and then striking at you again. And he _wil_ l do that, Lel.” 

She keeps the rest of them close to her for the remainder of the night. The others are as quiet as Sten at dinner that evening, sitting in the center of a mass of Dalish, though the meal itself proves less awkward than the rest of the day; the venison has put the elves in a good mood, and soon they are telling jokes and asking how life has been among the _shemlen_. Sten is mortified to hear her share the tale of his discovery that she is female. The feeling intensifies when an elf behind him smacks him on the back and demands he identify its gender. 

“Parshaara,” he mutters, beginning to rise, but Adhara stops him and silently passes a slice of venison from her plate to his. 

“Brothers and sisters,” she laughs. “Allow me to distract you with another tale.” Next comes the human bartender in Denerim, the merchant caravan, and fighting the dwarves in Orzammar. Adhara smiles the entire time, playing the crowd skillfully, face more animated than he has ever seen it. Sten had never thought of Adhara as a social creature, but he had clearly been mistaken. This shouldn't have surprised him, however, as he had found himself becoming even more quiet than usual among the humans. Still, the nights they sat watch together in silence now seem painful rather than pleasant. Had she _wanted_ to talk? 

The green-eyed Dalish interrupts his reverie and the elves' side conversations with a clear voice. “I want to hear a specific story, _lethallan_.” 

“And which story is that, Sarel?” 

“Tell us how the daughter of the greatest keeper of your clan becomes a Grey Warden. How is it that your place was not among your people?” 

Adhara's smile fades, and the tightness around her eyes returns. Vashedan. He doesn't want to see her look like that. He starts to rise again, but the Templar is already on his feet, face flushed. 

“She's fighting the Blight! How is that not helping her people? She's protecting everyone, regardless of race! You should be proud of her!” 

“Make no mistake, _shemlen_ ,” he replies. "If Ferelden fell to the Blight, the Dalish wouldn't mourn its passing. Let the darkspawn save us the trouble, I say.” 

“The Blight isn't a wolf you can outrun, Sarel,” Adhara says. “The only reason the darkspawn aren't killing our people already is because humans and dwarves are dying by the thousands to stop the tide. If you think you're suffering now at the hands of the werewolves, wait until your kindred begin transforming into shrieks.” 

A long silence stretches out across the camp. Once Sarel will no longer meet her eyes, she continues. “And as for why I left my people? I was ordered to by Keeper Marethari. I was sent from my clan to fight for their safety. One wonders if you would have been as brave had Zathrian asked the same.” 

The elves seem to decide unanimously that dinner is over, and arrangements for beds should be made for their guests. Space is made for the party's tents, and when it is discovered that Sten does not have one of his own, they offer one of elven make. 

“I will be fine,” he grumbles, but Adhara thanks them and sets it up herself. 

“Mornings in the forest are very wet. You'll wake chilled to the bone if you sleep outside.” 

It is strange to sleep within a tent. It dulls sounds and blocks sight and provides a sense of safety, though it is not a true barrier like being behind walls. Arrows pierce cloth, and the sleeper might never see or hear the attack coming. But Adhara insists that the Dalish guards will see danger long before it becomes a problem. He drifts restlessly, listening to the sounds of the forest, and jolts wide awake when Adhara lets herself into his tent some time later. She says nothing, but pulls his blanket over them both and curls against his chest. 

Strangely, sleep comes easily once she is near, and he is surprised when he wakes alone to the sounds of mid-morning.


	11. “People are not simple. They cannot be defined for easy reference in the manner of: 'the elves are a lithe, pointy-eared people who excel at poverty.'”

When they stumble upon Zathrian in the main floor of the ruin, Sten half-expects Adhara to kill him then and there. The conversation begins angrily, and only devolves further when she begins insisting that he take responsibility for the deaths of his clansmen.

“Speak with the Lady, Zathrian. Listen to the werewolves.” Her voice is shaking.

“What do I have to gain from speaking to mindless beasts?”

“If you don't, I'll make sure every clan from here to Nevarra knows that you betrayed your people.” Her eyes are narrow, but alight with a rage that, disturbingly, he finds very pretty.

That threat appears to hold weight: Zathrian follows them into the depths of the ruin, though he is not cowed enough by Adhara's rage and the snarling of the werewolves forming an ever- tightening circle around them to agree to their request. Sten keeps his hand to Asala; he does not like the way the beasts' leader keeps snapping at Adhara. But she continues to stare at him calmly, arms crossed.

One bite. All it would take is one bite. Either this has not crossed her mind, or she trusts the werewolves. He is not sure which option is more worrisome.

But the bite does not come. Zathrian demands that she kill the Lady, and when the werewolves begin shouting that they _all_ must die, Adhara turns instead on the Dalish keeper. “I'll make you end the curse, you selfish bastard. How many more will you allow to suffer like Arthas?”

“As many as it takes, _da'len_. You weren't there. You didn't see. And if you had just killed the wolf like I'd told you, the hunters would be cured now.”

She howls and draws her sword, lunging at him before the others are ready, and takes a block of ice to the chest. When she goes down, Sten steps forward to shield her, and—parshaara, the trees have come to life. The arishok will not like what he has to say about the Dalish.

This is what happens when mages are given power. Had Zathrian been properly leashed when his powers developed, he would have harmed neither human nor kindred. So many of this country's problems seem to be caused by mages: the massacre at the Tower, the poisoning of the arl and  the near-loss of Redcliffe to demons, and now _this_.

The battle is not short, and it is not easy: Zathrian is an old mage, and powerful, and they have no way to protect against his magic. But eventually Adhara grows close enough to knock him down with a shield bash to his stomach, and manages to keep him occupied and winded while the others take down the trees.

“Enough!” he cries, watching her sword descend toward his neck. Again, Sten predicts a death that does not come. The blade stops short of the killing blow, cutting into his robes and nicking the flesh of his shoulder. The mage does not feel it; he is too injured already. He sinks to the stone beneath him, using his staff to keep him upright. "I'll do it."

Adhara doesn't lower her blade. "I don't believe you."

"Either lifting the curse kills me, or you do. Let me at least die in a manner my clan can respect."

"You _deserve_ no—" she pulls the blade toward her, slicing further into his shoulder. Around them, the werewolves are howling, mad with the scent of blood.

"He is of no use to anyone dead," the Lady insists, stepping through the throng of enraged creatures surrounding the mage.

" _Shame_. So many have died for his pride, and it's fear of being _shamed_ that changes his mind, not remorse!" The blade moves again, and this time the mage cries out and falls further against the stone.

But the Lady's touch soothes Adhara just as it does the werewolves. Zathrian bleeds, but still draws breath. He cancels the spell maintaining the curse and crumples to the ground before them as the Lady is unbound and the werewolves writhe and return to human form.

When it is all over, Adhara kicks his cooling body once and then storms out of the ruin. Her anger sustains her through their return to camp, where she must inform the Dalish that their keeper and clanmates are dead. But they know her, and they trust her telling, and so do not mourn so much as cry from betrayal. Those whose loved ones had been transformed into werewolves are particularly horrified to learn that their leader knew how to save them, yet didn't. What horrifies Sten is that they are all _surprised_ that this happened.

Mages. The Dalish allow themselves to be led by mages. No wonder they are a broken people.

After she has passed the news on, she takes them out of the camp. "They'll need to mourn tonight, and it would be rude of me to let you all remain." They pitch their tents a quarter-mile away, and as soon as she is sure their fire is stoked and someone is preparing a meal, Adhara disappears further into the forest. Sten watches her leave them, wondering if he should follow. She is not a quiet person; he knows that now. She might want to discuss what happened. But he paces the edge of the camp until the Templar orders him after her.

“She _talks_ to you, Sten. So go talk to her.”

“I have no idea where she went.”

“She'll find _you_. Just go.” The Templar shoves at his arm until he steps out of the camp and into the woods.

Adhara does find him. She finds him and silently moves him into a sitting position beneath a large tree, then curls up in his lap and presses her face into his chest with a sigh. He thinks for a moment, and then runs a hand over her hair. When she loosens her ponytail, he decides that is encouragement for him to bury his fingers in her hair and brush it out.

“I'm an idiot,” she says.

Sten hadn't expected that. He flounders for words, but she saves him by continuing. “I've been looking down on the human nobility, and treating Alistair and Leliana awfully, and.... But my people are no better. I went out into the world and was determined to look down my nose at everything, and I come back and see my people's leaders make the same _selfish_....” her words trail off. “And I still don't want to leave them. I don't want to fight the Blight. I want to stay with them and take my chances.”

“I understand,” he replies.

“You? With all your talk of duty?” He does not like the tone with which she emphasizes the word.

“Duty does not make you _want_ to perform the task at hand,” he explains to her hair. “It just means you have no alternative. When the arishok sent me and my brothers, I did not wish to leave. And while I seek his answer, I miss my people.”

“But you're still _doing_ it. You could even go home now, but you chose not to.”

“I am several countries away from my home. That makes it easier. If our travels led us there, somehow, I would be just as pained by the thought of saying goodbye again as you are.”

Adhara sighs and is silent for several minutes. Sten continues petting her hair, and eventually he feels her relax against him. “I think that's the most I've ever heard you say at once.”

“You are the only one of the party worth speaking to, kadan.” When she laughs, he scowls. “I am being serious.”

“I know. It's just funny that I'm sitting her feeling like an idiot for being standoffish... and yet I still agree with you.” She shakes her head and wraps her arms around his neck. “Hug me.”

He obeys, and presses his face into her hair, enjoying her closeness. He tightens his arms, pulling her against him and feeling the contours of her body through their clothes. It is her _smell_ —he can't stop the sudden urge to lift her chin and press her lips to his. But if her groan and the quickness with which her tongue finds his is any indication, she doesn't mind.

Sten allows her to strip his shirt and shove him backwards onto the ground. She perches on his stomach, straddling him, and begins to take tiny nips at his neck. Each time her teeth press into his skin, he becomes more aware of the heat of her breath, the feel of her fingers splayed across his chest, how his heartbeat is steadily increasing. He wants her skin against his, but when he reaches for her shirt, she bites him hard enough to hurt. He grumbles, but rests his hands on her thighs, holding her against him even though it is clear that she has no intention of going anywhere.

Arousal is such a strange sensation; her touch makes him feel both violent and weak. He could break her with his hands, tear her clothes from her body in his need... if he could only lift them.  It is the same as the last time, in the inn, only this time he knows what is in store for him, and the anticipation alone is enough to make his thoughts vague.

Adhara rises, sliding her fingers against his cheek until his eyes open, then pulls her shirt over her head and unfastens her breastband with one hand, exposing her chest to the fading light. She smiles at him and lifts his hands to her skin, encouraging him to feel. Sten teases at her nipples until she bites at her lip and groans happily. When she presses her naked chest to his, arching her back and drawing his attention to her curves, he groans and pulls her to him for another kiss. He forces his tongue into her mouth and remembers with a sudden thrill what it is like to be inside her. When his fingers find the waistband of her trousers and tug, she begins to shimmy out of them obligingly, exposing more of her wonderful skin without even changing the pace of the kiss. His fingers explore her back as she sighs into his mouth, and he feels his eyes closing in relief. Something about the way she is breathing, ragged and needful against him, is relaxing.

She turns and begins unfastening his trousers. Sten raises his head to watch her and is granted a lovely view of the backs of her thighs as she leans on her knees and elbows. His hand slides between her legs, and she presses back against his fingers, encouraging him to push and—he had forgotten how _warm_ she was. He wiggles them experimentally, enjoying her heat and softness and wetness, and trying desperately to think what this reminded him of. Something he had wanted to do last time, but hadn't—

Yes. Sten turns her toward him again for a kiss, pressing his fingers more insistently into her to make her moan into his mouth. He wants her to make that noise again. No, more than that, he wants to listen to her until her voice is hoarse and feel the thrill that the sound sends through his nerves. But he also wants to taste her.

Parshaara. Perhaps he can do both. He takes her by the hips and pulls her forward until she is straddling his face. When his tongue laps against her skin, she gasps and clutches at his hands, which are resting on her thighs. Sten spends a few moments testing for the best reactions before

discovering a particular area that she seems to enjoy the feel of his tongue against. As he focuses on that, her fingers lace with his, and he feels her shift her weight between her ankles and knees, steadying herself.

Her noises prove as addictive as her smell; he could lie here in the dirt and listen to them for hours. She begins with quiet sounds in the back of her throat, almost as though she is agreeing with the actions of his tongue. As he gains knowledge of what she will enjoy, they grow louder, and longer, tinged with what almost sounds like pain, but he knows better now. And so he licks harder, and faster, and does not slow down when she grabs his braids and begins rocking against his mouth.

Sten's patience is rewarded with wonderful shout: she freezes, tosses her head back, and cries out throatily. Seconds later, she frees his hair and falls forward onto her hands, panting above him.

He takes a deep breath, feeling his blood racing through his veins, and realizes that he cannot wait any longer. But he can't remember how to tell her, or what to say, and so he digs his fingers into the soil in frustration.

Adhara understands. She kisses him until his eyes close quite against his will, then straddles his hips and guides him inside of her with a pleased whimper. She slides around him as her hips shift up and down, and it is his turn to groan. When she laughs at the sound, his eyes fly open, and he is rewarded with the sight of her naked atop him, hands braced against his stomach as she increases their pace with a happy gasp.

Beautiful. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, partially obscuring her tattoos and accentuating her faint smile. When her eyes meet his, her pupils are dilated, darkened, and their lids are heavy. They fall shut as she arches her back and begins to moan again. He allows his to close, as well, and listens to her, and feels her against him. She is strong, and soon they are both very out of breath.

Sten enjoys how frantic she makes him feel. He wants to thrust upward to meet her, but is worried about hurting her, and so forces himself to allow her to set their pace. His patience is       rewarded with another of her lovely, hoarse cries, and as she falls forward against his stomach he realizes that it is over. She plants gentle kisses on his stomach as he tenses and gasps beneath her, feeling the world swim and sound cease entirely. For several moments, her skin against his is all that there is, and his blood in his ears the only sound to hear.

Adhara is draped across his stomach when sounds begin to come back to him: the leaves rustling above them, the quiet calls of forest birds waking for the night, and her labored breathing, which matches his. Her eyes are closed, her cheek pressed to his shirt, and when he pulls her hair away from her face he finds that she is smiling.

They don't speak; she relaxes against him until the air grows chilly, then cleans and redresses, leading him by the hand back toward the camp. She drops her fingers from his as they return to view, but when they settle near the campfire with the others, she perches in his lap.

“Come here, everyone,” she commands, and the assassin wanders in to join them. When they are all assembled, looking to her for orders, she sighs and shakes her head. “I owe all of you an apology.”

“I... what?” Alistair replies.

She nods. “Especially you. The next time I call you a _shemlen_ , hit me.”

“No. No! You'd hit me back!”

“Well, yes, but—ugh,” she shakes her head. “That's not the point. Today made me realize that I have no reason to act....” Her eyes scan across them all, and he feels her sigh. “I'm sorry. I've been acting more like a Dalish than a Grey Warden, and... I think my keeper would be ashamed of me.”

The Templar is frowning. “'Dhara, you really need to help me out here. I'm worried I'll say something wrong and upset you.”

She stares, and then begins to laugh. “What I'm trying to say, you sod, is that I'm a Grey Warden, and I need to act more like one of those and less like a Dalish.”

The Templar raises an eyebrow. “So... we're not _shems_? Just like that? Do I get a face tattoo now?”

“No, you're definitely _shemlen_. But you're my equals, not my....” Adhara trails off awkwardly, and sighs. “I don't know. Does that make sense?”

“I... sure. Yes, yes it does,” he adds in a rush when the priestess hits him.

“Good. We're leaving here in the morning before I have a chance to change my mind and run off into the woods and seek my clan, you know.” At those words, she presses into Sten with a tired sigh and asks the priestess to play them a song. To everyone's surprise, she begins to sing in elvish, and instead of bristling, Adhara closes her eyes and listens calmly.


	12. “Are we being subtle now? I couldn't tell.”

“I will be glad to get out of the forest,” Leliana mutters, rubbing at her shoulder and staring out into the gloom. “I feel like the trees are staring at me.”

Alistair pokes at the fire with a branch and nods. “Adhara told me if you feel like you're being watched in the Brecilian Forest, it's because you are.”

She presses her lips together and ponders this for a moment. He loves it when she does that, and almost forgets what they're talking about. “Are you sure she wasn't just teasing you?”

“Well, no,” he admits, throwing the branch into the flames. “But after what we've seen here it wouldn't surprise me.”

“True. I want to write a song about the grand oak, but I don't think anyone would believe it.”

He laughs. “Does it matter? It'd make for an interesting story. Anyhow, if someone told me about half the things we've done, I wouldn't believe them, either.”

Leliana sighs and gazes out over the camp. “I'm worried about what all this is doing to Adhara, you know.”

“Why?”

Her blue eyes fix on his. “The only person she talks to is Sten! That doesn't  _worry_ you?” 

“Well... no.” He shrugs. “Should it?”

"Yes!” She shoves at his shoulder, and giggles when he falls off the rock he was perched on.

Brilliant. He's always clumsy when the girls are watching. Or Zevran. Or anyone, really. Alistair frowns at her from his spot in the dirt. “That was mean!”

“I'm sorry. You're fun to push around,” she grins, and he feels his face flush scarlet. “Yes, and that works out _so_ well for me.”

“It might, if you ask nicely.”

No, he had been wrong: _now_ his face is flushing scarlet. It was merely pleasantly pink before. He meets her eyes with a nervous laugh. “Didn't you hear? I was born in a barn. Raised with the livestock, in fact. You're lucky I walk on two feet, and you're expecting manners?”

“How silly of me. And here I thought that all Chantry boys were gentlemen.”

“Only when a revered mother is in sight,” he retorts. “...Wait, did you hear that?”

“What?”

Alistair looks out over the trees. “I thought I heard voices.”

“Oh, it's probably Sten and Adhara,” she replies. “They left to talk when we took over watch.”

“What, watch didn't give them enough time to talk?”

“Some people actually watch when they're supposed to, you know. She says you and I talk too much.”

“Hmph.” Alistair finds another stick and pokes at the fire some more. The wind picks up, and he hears noise again. “Hey... are we sure he isn't _hurting_ her?”

Leliana cocks her head, and then bursts into a fit of giggles. “That's not pain, Alistair.”

“Oh, it isn't?” He can hear her voice clearly now. “Oh... _oh_. It isn't, is it. They're... wait, no. How is that possible?”

 

****

 

Watch was maddening: sitting beside Adhara, feeling her warmth, but not being able to _do_ anything about it put Sten into a frenzy. Rather than sleep, he convinced her to walk with him into the woods, where he nearly broke the straps on her armor in his effort to be near her skin. Now she is standing naked, back to a tree, and he is kneeling, looking up and watching her face as his fingers push further into her. Due to the earlier work of his tongue, the act is almost effortless. He made her call his title in a low, hoarse voice, and he wanted to hear her do it again. It had never sounded so wonderful to his ears.

 

****

 

The humans are talking again. Zevran can't understand why the bard hasn't simply seduced the male Warden by now; he would have to be crazy to say no to such a lovely redhead, and she could certainly teach him a thing or two. Ascension into manhood would do him a world of good, and if he wouldn't let Zevran do it himself, he might as well give in to the lady who probably knew as much about sex as he.

He tosses on his bedding and kicks off his blankets in frustration. Such a lovely dream he'd been having. Something about his Warden finally giving in, and him spending the night exploring her body. _There_ was a woman who knew what she wanted, and he was not pleased to have been woken up. He had almost been able to hear her voice and feel the suppleness of her skin beneath his fingers.

“What do you mean, 'how is that possible'?” he hears Leliana ask. “Surely you don't need a diagram!”

“No, the basics are clear, it's just—she's so small, and he's... _enormous_ is such an awkward word, isn't it.”

“Maybe she likes that.” A pause. “It sounds like she does, anyway.”

Usually he thinks conversations he overhears have to do with sex when they really don't, but this one sounds like the real thing. Zevran frowns and sticks his head out from his tent. “What are you two talking about?”

The redhead laughs, her well-curved lips showing the slightest hint of teeth. “I never thought you'd need an explanation, too.” She puts a finger over her mouth, and he listens carefully.

He'd recognize that voice anywhere. It had been in his dream—no, not a dream, then? How unlucky for him that he is not the cause. Adhara has no love for the dwarf, and Alistair is in plain sight. Fascinating; he had not thought of their Sten as a sexual being. Zevran pulls on the boots Adhara gave him and steps out to join the others. He's more than slightly curious to see how she is faring against him, but knows that the other two will not simply let him walk over and observe them in action.

Hmm. The other Warden is a paranoid sort. He will simply use that to his advantage. “I suppose it hasn't crossed your minds that he might be killing her?”

Leliana shakes her head, but Alistair looks suddenly uncertain. “Wait... what if he is?” he asks her. “He did attack her at Haven, you know.”

“You're both being ridiculous,” she sighs.

“I wouldn't be so sure,” Zevran replies. “As a veteran killer and lover of many women, I should warn you that it can be hard to distinguish between the sounds of pleasure and pain.” In fact, some of the women themselves had been unsure until he'd slid the knife between their ribs to provide comparison.

Alistair shifts uncertainly, and Leliana finally snaps “Maker's breath! She wouldn't be calling his name if he was killing her. Stop using his paranoia as an excuse to be voyeuristic.” Leliana narrows her eyes at him, and he feels suddenly guilty. She must have learned that look in the Chantry.

He can hear it now. Sten's name is hidden within the groans being carried to them by the breeze. Zevran crosses his arms, then lowers them the second Leliana shakes her head at him.

 ...It's _not_ that he's jealous.

 

****

 

“Sten,” Adhara gasps, and he straightens his back to press his mouth to hers. He wants her to say it again. And again. Her legs have gone weak, and she is slumped against him for support. When the kiss breaks, she turns her head and presses her lips to his ear. “Sten,” she repeats. “Please, I need you.”

More wonderful words.

 

****

 

Wynne could have ignored the sounds of lovemaking before it became clear who was responsible. If Leliana hadn't mentioned that Adhara and Sten had gone for a walk, it would still be obvious, at this point: female elves have distinctive voices, and that is the fifth—oh, no, there's the sixth—sixth time she has called Sten's name.

She can hear the boys giggling outside of her tent. That won't do at all. Wynne rises reluctantly from her bedding—only slightly more comfortable than sleeping on marble—and leaves her tent to join them. They're so involved with their conversation that only Leliana notices her appearance.

“You had me going there for a second, Zev.”

“You're mistaken if you think I'm joking, my gorgeous human friend. He could very well kill her by accident!”

“He can't do that,” Alistair retorts, then turns to Leliana. “I mean, you can't die from... can you?”

More giggling, this time from the elf and the bard. Wynne crosses her arms. “Would the three of you like it if you knew someone was discussing your sex life while you were having it?”

“Yes,” grins Zevran, which does not surprise her. Leliana and Alistair blush and look chastened, which doesn't surprise her either.

“Zevran, go back to bed,” she orders. “If you leave your tent again, I'll turn you into a statue.”

“Your bosom heaves magnificently when you're annoyed, my dear,” he replies, but at least he obeys. After staring for a moment and waiting for her bosom to heave magnificently in annoyance, no doubt, but Wynne holds her breath until he is out of sight. Fifteen years ago, she had an apprentice like Zevran. It took her weeks to realize that he was angering her during lessons because he liked the way she sighed in exasperation. That sort of lesson isn't easily forgotten. Small wonder that Adhara binds her chest; Wynne doesn't believe for one second that it's only because of the armor.

“Now you two, go stand watch like you're supposed to.” Once they've walked toward the trees— _away_ from Adhara and Sten—she returns to her tent. Unfortunately, it is closer to them than the others, and the elf's voice is clearer.

Well, at least she's enjoying herself. Their time with the Dalish hasn't been the easiest for Adhara, and sex is an excellent way to de-stress. Unless there's more to it than that, and the two of them are...?

What an odd thought. They do get along, and Wynne supposes that he's appealing enough, even if his lack of eyebrows makes his face seem unpleasantly blank.

...Would that continue during—no, no. Best not to think about it. Wynne opens her book and summons a small light to read by. Thankfully, her years in the Tower have made her adept at tuning out the noise of lovers.

 

****

 

Her nails are digging into the backs of Sten's shoulders, encouraging him to thrust harder. Adhara is braced against the tree, legs wrapped around his waist, and he is holding her up by her thighs. This would be perfect if she were taller so that he could kiss her, or bite her neck, or _something_.

He thrusts again, and she tosses her head back with a wail, opening her eyes and gazing up at him. When she smiles, it's his turn to groan.

 

****

 

Oghren rouses from his drunken slumber to the sound of Adhara doing an excellent impression of a bronto during mating season. He dozes for a while, listening idly to Wynne send everyone to bed, so it takes time for him to realize that their fearless leader is saying a name instead of making random noise.

He was expecting “Zevran!” “Alistair!” would have surprised him. “Leliana!” would have been too good to be true, but what she says is “Sten!”

Oghren's eyes open at this, and he listens intently, doubting his own ears. Stones of the ancestors, what had been _in_ that wineskin?

“—on't stop talking.”

That was the qunari's voice, all right. He's retaking the Deep Roads with a vengeance, by the sound of it. Good on him. Morrigan won't be too happy, but Oghren can't be the only one who thinks anything that got put in her would come out coated with more poison than a Crow's dagger. Adhara says something back, but it's too breathy for him to catch.

Probably for the best—Oghren has a feeling that if the qunari knew they'd been overheard, he'd crack the rest of their skulls and turn their brains into omelets. He settles against his blankets and lets the wine take him back under.

...Heh. Hot. Bet she's climbing him like a tree.

 

****

 

Sten doesn't want to ever stop. He can't even understand what Adhara is saying to him anymore because the words come floating in disjointed through an all-consuming haze of sweat and pleasure, but the tone of her voice is enough to goad him on. The purple lines inked into her skin draw his attention to her mouth and eyes. Both are open, and he wishes that he could kiss her.

Instead, he runs a thumb against her lips and groans when she begins to bite and suck at it needily. He answers her teeth with his own, turning his head to get at her wrist, and feels a thrill at her cry.

Vashedan: he miscalculated and bit too hard. Deep, angry welts appear on her skin, but all it seems to do is encourage her. He has the sudden urge to bite her again until she bleeds, and is relieved that more of her is not within reach of his mouth.

“Sten,” she groans again, pinning his eyes with her grey ones. Her facial expressions should not be able to control his heart rate, but they do. He gasps for breath and loses her next words to the thunder in his ears.

 

****

 

Morrigan comes awake with a jolt, momentarily certain that the camp is under attack again. Within seconds, 'tis clear why she was dreaming that Mother had “company.”

“Please! Creators above, that—anh!” The words dissolve into incoherency.

So, the assassin had finally worked his way into Adhara's bed, had he? Unsurprising, if a little disappointing. Also potentially dangerous; she would be vulnerable, and if he still _did_ wish to end her life, 'twould be an opportune moment to do so.

“Sten! Please!”

... _Sten_? No, surely 'tis not possible. After all that talk from him of being uninterested in such “a little thing,” he chooses someone even smaller? What of his warnings of armor, and _teeth_ , and qunari sex being deadly?

“Please!” Adhara repeats, and Morrigan feels a sudden chill. Her voice is hoarse, and her breathing ragged. She could be begging out of pleasure, or.... Morrigan shakes her head and tries not to think of Mother's last few Chasind lovers. They had sounded much the same before the end. If Sten had _not_ been lying, he could be killing Adhara. That would leave Morrigan alone with the rest of them, all of whom could not abide her, and she'd be turned into the Templars as an apostate.

Perhaps she should warn the others.

But no, Leliana and Alistair are on watch, and neither of them would believe her. She could go check for herself, but if they caught her sneaking about 'twould be assumed she was up to something nefarious.

“Yes! Harder! I—” More incoherent noises.

Ah. Adhara might be depressed, but she is by no means suicidal. If he were hurting her, she would not be asking for more. So 'tis rough sex, then, and she will survive the night.

Morrigan rolls over and tries not to listen and wonder what 'tis like to bed a qunari. Unfortunately, the knowledge that the armor, and the biting, and the death are lies rekindles her interest, and she finds herself wondering again why he had chosen the little elf over her advances.

 

****

 

Sten lowers them both to the ground and pulls her into his lap, resting his back against the tree. Adhara breathes heavily against him, and for a few minutes all they can do is pant. Each inhale fills his nostrils with tree and dirt and the smell of sex, which relaxes him. She rests her head against his chest and makes a contented noise.

“Sleep in my tent tonight, _lethallin_.”

One of his arms wraps lazily around her waist. “Why?”

Her head tilts upward, and she smiles at him. “Is there a reason not to?”

He can't think of one, and so he shakes his head. If anything, there are multiple reasons to agree: she is warm, and her hair smells wonderful, and he is very tired. When she rises, he helps her gather their armor and clothing and follows her back to her tent, shivering slightly in the damp  air of the forest. Adhara curls against him the moment he is underneath the blankets, and he turns on his side so that he can wrap his arms around her.

“If this is going to become a habit, you will need a larger blanket, kadan. My feet are cold.”

“So pull your knees up!” she grumbles into his chest. “Honestly, you have no sense at all for keeping warm, do you?”

Sten follows her suggestion and feels instantly warmer. Not only are his legs now covered, but he is curled around her, sharing her heat. “How is wanting a larger blanket nonsensical? You are half my size. It's like keeping warm with a napkin.”

Parshaara, now she is laughing. What did he say that was funny?

 

 


	13. "This place stinks of desperation.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [A/N: In memory of Callie von Daintyfeet, Destroyer of Worlds, from whom Soft was modeled.]

Sten opens the door to her room and pauses in the entryway. Adhara is splayed across the bed in her smallclothes and chest wrappings, looking strangely forlorn. Beside her is a small, orange tabby of the variety they normally see running away from them in alleyways. Except this one smells clean, and appears to be begging for attention.

“Hi,” Adhara says without looking up. The cat rolls onto its back and offers its stomach to her, and she buries her fingers in its fur. “I think I'm beginning to understand why shemlen keep pets. This cat followed me in from the kitchen.”

“It is likely that it just wants you to feed it.”

“I know,” she frowns, shifting her grey eyes to his. “But I don't care. Her fur is soft, and I like hearing her purr.”

So that is the word for the noise the creature is making. Oddly descriptive for the common tongue. Sten steps into the room and closes the door behind him. “You have been out of sorts since dinner. Is the cat helping that?”

She nods. “Surprisingly, yes.”

He sits on the bed beside her and scowls when the cat leaps away from Adhara and runs for the door. She laughs and curls in Sten's lap, then begins making a soft clicking noise that summons the cat back to her. It jumps back onto the mattress, fixes its green eyes on Sten, and begins twitching its tail, but comes no closer.

“Pet her.”

Sten gazes down at the cat, which stares back up at him. “Why?”

“Because she's not going to come back over here unless you do. Either you pet her, or I kick you out of my room.”

“Hmph.” Sten replies, and holds out his hand toward the tabby. It sniffs him, then bumps its head against his palm.

“See? She likes you!”

Its fur is clean, and does not feel unpleasant against his fingers. And the purring proves oddly relaxing. There are worse things than petting a cat, he decides. Though he hopes that Adhara won't become attached; it would be impossible to care for such a creature while traveling.

After watching them both for a few moments, Adhara shoves him backward on the bed. Both she and the cat arrange themselves on his chest once he has gotten comfortable against the bedding. He has become used to Adhara doing this over the past few days, but the cat has claws which prove slightly uncomfortable, and it kneads at him for a few moments before settling down beside her.

“What is troubling you, kadan?” he asks. She removes her ponytail, sending her dark hair down around her ears and shoulders, and he buries his fingers in it before she asks him to.

“Alistair,” she sighs, looking up his chest toward his face. “Eamon wanting to make him king just doesn't sit well with me, especially after wasting all that time to save the sodding queen.”

Sten works his fingers through a tangle and thinks. “Are you suggesting he flee from his duty?”

She shakes her head. “I'm not sure it's his duty at all. He wasn't raised by nobles. He has no... noble training. It's like if Keeper Marethari had decided to put me in charge of my clan. I wouldn't know what to do, and there are some things that I literally can't do that I'd need to. And Alistair is a Grey Warden. He can't... be both, can he?”

“One man, one life, one duty,” Sten replies, and she sighs and buries her face in his shirt.

“Shemlen politics makes no sense. You'd think the king of the nation would be their most competent leader, not the son of the man with the biggest stick.”

The corners of Sten's mouth twitch. “You sound like a qunari.”

“No,” she retorts, lifting her head and narrowing her eyes at him in mock disapproval, “I sound like a _Dalish_. Our leaders choose who will succeed them from their apprentices. Lines are rarely hereditary.”

Sten thinks back to Sarel and the other elves in the camp. “Your father was your clan's keeper, but you became a hunter.”

Adhara traces a spiral on his shirt while the cat continues purring beside her. “Yes, because I wasn't born a mage.”

He is glad of that fact, but decides that it would be unwise to say so. After a few minutes' silence, Adhara speaks again. “Sleep in here with me tonight.”

“Gladly.” For the first time, the bed appears large enough to comfortably fit them both.

The cat stays with them, which he had not anticipated, and so he spends the night on his side with Adhara pressed against his chest and the tabby purring in a ball on his hip.

His sleep proves as restful as his awakening is abrupt. The door to the suite opens, and an unfamiliar elven shriek fills the air as the maid in the doorway spies him. Parshaara, she has thrown the linens she was holding. The tabby leaps from the bed with a hiss and hides beneath a chair, fur standing nearly on end.

The maid stares at them both with wide eyes, and Adhara sits up and begins to giggle. “Well, we're awake. What do you want?”

“Sers, you really shouldn't—” her eyes flit to Adhara's bare chest before she clamps them tightly shut. “He shouldn't be here with you! He has his own room!”

“And he spent the night in mine.”

“The two of you should get dressed, sers,” the elf insists. “And he should go back to his room. Eamon's an early riser, and he's in the habit of coming round and checking on his guests in the mornings.”

Adhara shrugs and rises, staring at the maid while naked, hands on her hips. “So? Why should he care who shares my bed?”

“It's... rude,” the maid manages, and bends to pick up the scattered laundry.

Sten shakes his head and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. When the maid sees that he is suitably clothed, she breathes a small sigh of relief and ducks around Adhara to stoke the fire.

“Kadan.”

She looks over at him. “What?”

He pulls the large blanket from the bed and places it over her head so that her body is covered from head to toe. “We are not in camp. Get dressed.”

Sten decides that he is lucky the blanket prevents her from seeing his amused expression when she begins to grumble. Unfortunate that there is no way to craft armor this concealing; even in plate he has had difficulty fighting beside her without distraction recently. He changes his shirt while Adhara puts on trousers and a top, and they leave together to go find breakfast while the maid is still taking care of their room.

...The cat is following them. When Sten looks down at it, it tangles itself between his legs, and he nearly trips. Adhara laughs at them both and steps around them. “She likes you! Why not name her?”

He stares after her. “...It's a tabby. It has a name.”

Adhara mutters under her breath. Sten's mind tries to translate the sounds out of habit, so by the time he realizes that she spoke his language he has lost the meaning. At this rate he will have forgotten how to speak in his own tongue by the time he returns to Seheron.

“How are you going to tell it apart from the tabby that hunts mice in the kitchen, then?” she asks. He looks at her sharply and keeps walking. “You want me to give the cat an identity?”

“Yes.” She enters the dining area and strides purposefully for a bowl of fruit. “If you don't, I'm naming it.”

“Good,” he grumbles, catching the apple she tosses at him and biting down.

“Sten _imekari_ ,” she grins, flicking her fingers at the cat, which scampers toward her for more attention. “Her name is now Sten Imekari.”

“No,” he scowls. “That is foolish.” And also a mutilation of his native tongue, but at least she is trying.

“So rename her, or I'm telling them all she's Little Sten.”

While she selects slices of cold meat for her breakfast plate, Sten wanders over to stare down at the tabby. It rolls onto its back when he stops before it, and he kneels to give it attention before he is quite aware that he has planned to.

Spoiled little creature. The cat in the kitchen would be a hunter like Adhara. This one seems much more like a cat entertainer.

...Vashedan. She has him sounding like an idiot inside of his own mind. Cats do not have duty.

This one also appears to be lacking coordination. It rolls into his boot before spying a loose lace and batting at it.

“This cat is an abysmal fighter,” he mutters to Adhara, and is surprised by how hard she laughs in response.

Sten flicks the lace at the cat again and scowls when it misses another pounce. When its paws dart out wildly, it flails and falls over instead of catching the string. “Be glad you live inside walls, kabethari.”

A giggle from the doorway distracts him, and as he turns his head to stare at the priestess the tabby sinks its teeth into his hand. He releases his grip with a curse, and it attempts to run away with his bootlace. It does not get far since it is still attached to him, and so quickly gives up in favor of rolling over his boots again.

“Sten, now I know what Adhara sees in you!” Leliana says as she and the assassin enter the room.

“What?” He rubs at his hand in irritation and sits down at the table self-consciously. The cat follows him with a satisfied purr and sits on his feet while he turns his attention resolutely to his breakfast.

“Here I thought you were just this big soldier, but you play with kittens, too!”

_Play_? Sten shakes his head. “I was training it. It has no coordination.”

“You're a big softie!” the priestess says in sing-song, pointing down at the tabby, which is now rubbing against his ankle.

Parshaara. “There is nothing soft about me,” he retorts.

Sten does not like the smile on the assassin's face, but is saved from his retort by a well-timed apple toss from Adhara. She nearly hits the elf in his tattoo, and his resultant distraction gives her the chance to tell them her plan for today.

“We're going to the Alienage,” she says. “Since the two of you are awake, you're coming along.” The priestess frowns. “Why not leave one of us and take Morrigan or Wynne, just in case?” Adhara laughs. “Isn't that overkill for a district full of flat-ears?”

A few hours later they have killed demons inside an abandoned orphanage, blood mages guarding a hospice door, and Tevinter slavers who were selling the healthy elves they “cured.” Everyone is out of breath, singed, covered in blood, and a few gold lighter from the pickpockets that kept bumping into them. The assassin decides that this is a perfect opportunity to remind her of her earlier words, and Adhara answers his taunt with a rock and something about “spineless, flat-eared, Maker-loving cocksuckers” before whirling on the Alienage elder and demanding to know why he allowed this all to happen to his people.

“'Allow' is an interesting choice of word,” is his mild reply, but the conversation quickly turns sour. They stand in the middle of the square, beside the tree they have allowed to grow far too large amidst buildings that will not hold up to a strong breeze, and Sten watches Adhara act just as baffled as he is by how complacent the city elves are about everything that has happened to them.

As the conversation devolves, Sten gazes at a dead dog nearby. _Dead. Desperation, desolation_.

The building the elder is now stalking into. _Damaged_.

“That was well handled, my Warden," the assassin frowns. "After all, they are just as well- equipped as you or I to defend themselves.”

“But they should be, Zev.”

“You say that, but you have never lived in a place like this.” He shakes his head, then adds, “You do not give your brethren enough credit.” _Disappointment._

“They can do something other than roll over and take abuse, then?” _Derision_. The tight lines around her eyes have returned.

The assassin and Adhara are not speaking to one another by the time they all re-enter the estate. He stalks off the instant they enter the main hall, and Adhara turns for her room without speaking to either Sten or the priestess.

“You should go talk to her,” she says as Sten stares down the hall after her.

“That is the walk of someone who wants to be alone,” he replies.

“No,” Leliana shakes her head. “She wants to be somewhere private. But she trusts you, and believe me, she will want to talk.”

“I am not good at talking.”

“Maker's breath, Sten!” She sighs up at him when he turns and blinks at her. “You are proud of your people, yes?”

An insulting question. “Of course I am.”

“Imagine seeing them in the situations Adhara saw the city elves in today.”

“...Very well.”

When he opens the door to her room, Adhara is lying stomach-down on the bed, and the cat is purring against her neck as she pets it behind the ears. She lifts her face to look at him as he approaches, and he notices that her eyes are red.

“They're pathetic,” she mumbles. “And yet I'm hurt that the _hahren_ called me a 'savage' before he slammed the door in my face.”

Sten sits beside her and watches her pet the cat. As her fingers run through its fur, the tightness around her eyes relaxes, and soon its purring and rolling has her smiling again.

He was wrong. The cat did have a duty. It was meant to be petted. And when Adhara was upset, she needed something to touch. It was why she had spent all those nights in his lap, and why she began sleeping beside him in the Dalish camp. The priestess had been wrong, too; he may not be very good at speaking, but there are other ways to comfort Adhara.

Sten leans in closer and begins petting the cat alongside her. “Soft,” he says.

Her grey eyes meet his. “...What?”

“The cat's name,” he explains, and frowns when she laughs at him. “You want to name her 'Soft'”?

“...That is what it is.”

Adhara shakes her head and leans against him fondly. “The way you think is fascinating,  _lethallin_ ,” she murmurs, closing her eyes and settling against him with a contented sigh.

Sten wraps an arm around her and smells her hair. _Soft. Scent, sadness, suffering. Smile_. He would do something far more ridiculous than naming a cat to make her smile.


	14. "Is this some form of... mass suicide?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sing the song they're writing to the tune of Finnegan's Wake: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Finnegan%27s_Wake

Sten frowns across the table to where Adhara and the Templar are singing a horrible tavern song the dwarf and priestess have just finished teaching them. As the only sober one left at the table, he is also the only one of them still capable of becoming _annoyed_ at such a spectacle. His people were wise to forbid frequent drinking.

 “ _King Endrin took Orzammar's royal seat_

_A gentleman dwarva, with a mighty glower._

_He had three sons, all rich, two sweet_

_And the youngest with aspirations of power._

_Good Endrin was a true Aeducan!_

_With a love for the liquor he was born._

_No elf, dwarva, qunari or human_

_Could outdrink him and yet see the morn!_ ”

Sten closes his eyes when they reach the chorus and the rest of the bar joins in. Bad enough that the words are barely comprehensible without hearing them in three keys at once.

“ _Atrast vala will ya dance to yer partner_

_And 'round the floor yer sitter shake!_

_Isn't it the truth I told ya?_ ”

“ _Lots of fun at Bhelen's wake!_ ” Adhara and the dwarf finish with a shriek, and the rest of the drinkers devolve into joyous shouts.

Parshaara. The Templar has thrown an arm around her shoulders. He expects her to turn violent, but instead she laughs and calls for more beer. They cheer as a barmaid in an impractical shirt ambles over in response to Adhara slamming more coin onto the table.

“Thanks for tonight, 'Dhara,” the Templar slurs, tapping the rim of his refilled tankard to hers. “Really. And for earlier, with the blood mages, and for telling me I'm a good teacher.”

Yes. Earlier, when Sten had been ordered to stay at the estate while she, the Templar, the overbearing mage, and the priestess went to wipe out a den of the mages they call _malificarum_. They had all returned burnt and blood-spattered, and Adhara had goaded the witch into casting at her to show off her newly-learned training. The witch was now on the opposite side of the table, glaring darkly at Adhara, clearly displeased that she had picked up anti-magic skills. 

Adhara laughs merrily at her fellow Warden. “How does it feel to have created a Dalish Templar?”

He shrugs. “Nothing another beer won't fix.”

Sten leans away as the assassin sways over his lap toward Alistair. “Will another beer also fix your reluctance to be my bedmate, my handsome human friend?”

The Templar's cheeks redden. “I'll _never_ be that drunk.”

“Leave him alone, Zev.” Adhara frowns, downs her glass, and then tugs on Alistair's shoulder. “Come on, dance with me.”

Sten meets his eyes, and the Templar blanches. “What about Sten?”

“Sten doesn't dance.”

“I do not dance,” he agrees, and soon she is dragging the Templar into the center of the bar.

The assassin sighs and takes a sip of wine. “Yet my desire to see him naked remains undiminished.”

Sten's curiosity wins over his certainty that he would be better off not knowing. “Why are you attracted to the Templar?”

“What's not to like? Nice muscles, excellent lips.” The elf takes another sip of wine and watches the object of his desire stumble and nearly knock Adhara over as the music picks up pace.

Sten shakes his head. “That makes no sense. You can't mate with him, so why do you feel attraction?”

The assassin smirks in a way that Sten has come to associate with questions he regrets asking. “Ah, but I can!” He goes on to explain the process with perhaps more detail than is necessary, taking his time to describe sensations in a voice that makes Sten feel distinctly awkward.

“So you do it for pleasure?”

He nods. “It feels very different from everyday sex.” The elf's eyes meet his. “Perhaps you will want to try it with Adhara? There is nothing quite like the sensation of being buried to the hilt within one's lover, but given your size differences I doubt you've experienced it.”

Sten has not, in fact, which had not bothered him until mere moments ago.

The assassin turns his gaze to where Adhara is swaying with the Templar a short distance away. “All the two of you need is a little guidance. Your lover is certainly built for it,” he muses. “She may have many sexy qualities, but the curve of her ass is _exceptional_. Think about burying your fingers against that soft skin as she rides you and surrounds you with hot, tight, smoothness. Or perhaps she is on her back with her knees pulled up, taking all of you into her at your whim. Enticing, no?”

...Vashedan. “We are through talking.”

“As you like.” The elf gives a supple shrug and disappears into the crowd with a smile that Sten would gladly never see again. _Guidance_? No doubt he would gladly volunteer.

Leliana and Oghren are composing another verse to their maddening song about Orzammar, and so there is little for Sten to do but sit and watch Adhara dance. Thankfully, after two more songs this seems to bore her. After goading the priestess into dancing with the Templar, she returns to straddle Sten's lap and pulls him toward her to give him a deep kiss. This causes a hush to descend upon the rest of the tavern, and when Sten opens his eyes he sees multiple drunken faces turned toward them. The range of expressions present is unsettling; all these months, and the Fereldan lack of restraint still bothers him.

Adhara rises to her knees in his lap so that she can whisper in his ear. “Let's get out of here.”

“Very well.” They stand, and she leads him by the hand from the room after making an obscene tongue gesture at a catcalling city elf.

“Your eyes are bigger than your snatch, knife-ear!” laughs a nearby human. “You're gonna end up with a limp!”

She splits away from him and has the offending human by the crotch of his trousers before Sten has finished realizing that 'snatch' is not a verb. “Your concern is touching! Let me share my pain with you,” she smiles, and begins to squeeze.

It takes a great deal of talking from the priestess to prevent a brawl. Gold is exchanged, and Sten picks Adhara up, throws her over his shoulder, and carries her out of the room before she can cause more trouble. He expects her to struggle, but instead she laughs and waves goodbye to the assassin as they leave the tavern.

The dwarf is a bad influence, Sten decides. They never spent much time in taverns until he joined. At least she ordered them all to remove their weapons before they went drinking. That was likely the only thing that kept the human alive and Adhara not slicing her way through half of the City Watch tonight.

Once they are too far away for her to run back, he lets her resume moving under her own power. Sten assumes that they will walk back to the estate, but she drags him around a corner and into an alley and pulls him down toward her by his shirt collar. They have gotten better at dealing with their size difference: when he bends to kiss her, she slides her arms around his neck, and when he straightens she holds herself steady by pressing her knees into his sides.

Adhara bites at his neck and ears as he eases a hand into the back of her trousers and holds her against him with his other arm. He knows by her scent that she is wet and will be impatient for sensation, so he slides his hand along the soft skin of her backside and plunges his first two fingers inside of her. She arches and groans, angling him where she wants him, before thrusting her tongue into his mouth needily.

The elf's words return to him as he closes his eyes and breathes in her scent and enjoys the feel of her tightening around his fingers. _Smooth_ , he had said. _Tight_. He can feel her muscles working as she grinds against his hand, and the sensation makes him curious. His teeth seek her neck,  nipping roughly, as he withdraws his middle finger, sweeping her wetness back toward— vashedan, what had the assassin called it? He knows the qunari term, but the connotations are wrong—her _ass_.

An oddly suitable word. It sounds like a hiss, or a breathy exhale. It is a word suffused with the sounds of sex.

Her nails rake the back of his neck as he presses into her insistently. An unexpected amount of resistance, and then he eases into softness and heat. He removes his index finger from her to give himself better leverage before working his middle finger the rest of the way inside her ass. She wails and meets his eyes in surprise, but nothing about her body language tells him to stop. He replaces his index finger with his thumb and compares the different textures as her pupils dilate and she smiles hazily.

“I take it Zev put some bad ideas into your head tonight.” “Yes,” he agrees, and thrusts his fingers into her again.

“Any idea what you're doing?” Her voice has a breathy quality that makes his pulse race. Sten shakes his head. “He told me it was possible, but that we would need 'guidance.'”

Adhara scowls until he distracts her with his fingers again. “H-he would suggest that, the sodding lech.” She pushes down to meet his next thrust and groans softly. “All the same, you really _could_ hurt me.”

He does not doubt that; she feels _incredibly_ tight around his finger. “Then what do you suggest we do, kadan?”

Her eyes meet his, and she gives him a sheepish smile. “I've actually been thinking we could use some help. Our height difference doesn't exactly make sex easy.”

“True,” he admits. It is frustrating not to be able to kiss her when they are joined. “Half the time I can't see you,” she frowns.

“Also true.”

“Alright then, let me down before I change my mind.” She plants a kiss on his cheek as he removes his fingers from her with a reluctant grumble.

Adhara straightens her trousers, takes him by the hand, and leads him back out onto the main road. Walking is by no means comfortable, and he quickly realizes that they are headed for the docks. He silently recites the Qun to distract himself until she brings them to a halt in front of a familiar door. They had driven mercenaries out of here. Sten remembers the smell.

“...The brothel?”

She takes him by the hand and pulls him through the door. “Come on.”

Parshaara. He is going to strangle the assassin.

 

 


	15. “It was her ignorance we pitied, not her mistake.”

Sten has resigned himself to Adhara's entrances into the estate causing a stir. Two days ago, when they returned from their night at the brothel, they came face-to-face with the arl.

“I've had my men looking all over for you, Warden. Where did you run off to last night? Your friends and I were certain Loghain had found you!”

She rolled her eyes and sat down heavily on a nearby chair. “We were at the Pearl.”  

“The— Maker's breath, Adhara, you are a _Warden_. You shouldn't be seen in such places.”

“Only one man _saw_ us, and I guarantee that he won't be at the Landsmeet. Now sod off.”

When he showed no sign of leaving his own estate, Ahara rose and hobbled off to her guest room. The arl and the others turned their gaze on Sten, and he scowled at them.

“Wh-why is she walking like that?” the Templar asked. “She's not hurt, is she?” “...No,” Sten replied.

The assassin gave him a wide smile. “So, was I right? She was lovely, no? Though when I suggested guidance, I was of course referring to myself!”

Vashedan. “She was not interested in _you_ , elf.”

Sten turned to follow Adhara as the assassin's smile faded. If the dwarf's account at dinner that night was true, the encounter was all the servants discussed for the entire day. Which would account for the odd looks the maids have given him since then.

But now Adhara has found a way to outdo herself. This time when she enters the estate she is not limping, but _bleeding_.

Sten looks up from his book to see her framed in the doorway by two horrified guards. Her arm is thrown around the neck of her mabari, and her face is the palest he has ever seen it. As soon as the door closes behind her she collapses on the floor of the atrium, and the estate descends into chaos. He surges to his feet and tosses the book aside as Alistair and Leliana run toward her.

“Wynne,” she mutters, struggling to return to her feet. “Get Wynne.”

Someone goes running—red hair, the priestess—but Sten is rooted to the floor as he stares at the blood dripping from between the plates of her armor.

“'Dhara, where's Zev?” asks the Templar, pushing her hair out of her face and inspecting a deep cut on her cheek. “Is he okay? What happened?”

Adhara begins fumbling at her armor, attempting to remove it. The priestess and the overbearing mage come in at a run as the Templar gives up his line of questioning and begins to help her. As her chestpiece is removed, Sten spies the broken shaft of an arrow jutting out of her left breast. It had missed her heart by an inch at most.

The mage looks down at her with thin lips. “Pull that out, Alistair.”

Adhara's shriek of pain is cut short by magic, and Sten falls to his knees beside her as Adhara sinks further to the floor. Their eyes meet, and he sighs in relief when he sees that she has been completely healed. The cut on her cheek is now a streak of blood.

Adhara frowns at the arrow shaft as the Templar drops it to the floor. “Creators, that sodding  _hurt_.” She holds her arm out to Sten, and he helps her stand.

The priestess and the Templar look at her and speak at the same time. “Where is Zevran?”

“Were you ambushed?”

Adhara laughs, but the sound does not have as pleasant an effect on Sten's nerves as normal. “You could say that.”

“But where _is_ he?” 

“He's dead, Alistair.” And with that, she leaves everyone standing in the hall and retreats to her room.

Sten sighs as the others turn to him because he knows what they will say. The Templar does not disappoint: “Go talk to her, Sten. She'll tell you what happened.”

“Talk to her yourself.”

“She's your friend!”

He crosses his arms and glowers down at her fellow Warden. “And you are not?”

“What if she _hits_ me?”

“She is not going to hit you."

“Come with me.”

”...Parshaara, I will if it stops this conversation.” Sten follows the Templar down the hall and frowns as he knocks at the door to her suite. When there is no answer, Sten reaches around and opens the door himself.

“...Oh.” They step into the room and find Adhara face-down on the bed beside Soft, who is purring and half-asleep. “'Dhara?”

She lifts her head from the bed and stares at them both with red-rimmed eyes. “Hello.” “I'm—I'm worried,” the Templar stutters. “What _happened_?”

“It was an ambush. He said he'd found one of the women we're supposed to give the letters to, and led us down a back alley. 'Just a quick stop, my Warden, and then we can return to killing darkspawn and humans and whatever else suits your fancy.'”

The Templar sits awkwardly on the bed near her, tensed as though ready to spring should she turn violent. “Were you attacked by a gang? You should have let me come with you, instead of you just leaving with Zev and your bloody dog! Maybe I could have—”

Adhara sits up and puts a hand on his arm. “No, you don't understand. _Zevran_ attacked me. He led me right to the other Crow who had been sent to....”

“Maker's breath!” The Templar hugs her to him. “How many of them did you fight off?”

She shrugs. “I don't know. I was too busy—I didn't think he was actually going to betray me until his knives were trying to cleave my head from my neck.”

Adhara raises her left hand to her recently-cut cheek, and Sten sees the old hunting wound she told them about months ago.

Wolves. _Don't be so focused on the goal that you lose sight of the dangers beside you._

But he has done just that. His fixation on Adhara caused him to ignore the assassin, and she had almost died for it.

_Shut up, Zevran._

_She was not interested in you, elf_.

 _Failure._ He turns on his heel and leaves Adhara with the Templar. She needs to talk, and he is better at talking than Sten.

Soft sees him leave and follows after him with a quiet meow, so he leads her to the kitchen and demands table scraps from a terrified maid. The overbearing mage finds him while he is crouched beside the tabby, feeding her bits of chicken from a bone, but unlike the priestess refrains from making obnoxious comments about his “sensitive side.”

“How are you holding up?”

He stands and looks down at her. “I don't understand.”

She sighs. “Sten, you care for Adhara. I saw your face when she walked in today. Realizing that your lover is mortal is always painful.”

Parshaara. Of course she would have an opinion, and of course it would be incorrect. “I am fine.”

“Good. So you won't mind if I send you on an errand, then?” When Sten scowls, she continues, “Something for Adhara. I was wondering if you might go to the market and bring back some flowers to give to her.”

“Why?”

The mage's lips press into a thin line. “To... calm her down.”

Odd, that flowers would be able to soothe someone, but the overbearing mage is an herbalist. She would know. Sten nods, gives the rest of the chicken to Soft, and straps his sword to his back.

He can smell Adhara's blood when he enters the courtyard, and he thinks of wolves again.

She had told the story as a warning, she'd said, the night before he challenged her for power. The wolf who was shot through the heart, the one who attacked from behind, and the one who came at them from the side. Sten had taken it as a lesson. At the time, he had believed Zevran the one shot through the heart, and himself the one who attacked from the side. Now he knows better. _He_ was the wolf shot through the heart, who gave up the fight before the battle had truly begun. And Zevran, the wolf who struck from behind.

He will not be taken by surprise again. The other members of the party need watching. Granted, they are not assassins, but the mages should not be trusted because they need someone willing to protect them from themselves. At least the overbearing mage is too focused on acting like a priestess and mothering everyone to spend her time using her more dangerous skills.

...Vashedan. Sten should have asked her which sort of flowers to purchase. The stall in front of him is disconcertingly colorful, and he does not like the look the elf girl is giving him. He also does not know how many the mage will need for Adhara.

“Can I help you, ser?” The little elf looks up at him, and he scowls and rummages around in his pocket for coin.

“One of each.” Adhara had said something about their stores being low. Perhaps the others will find a use as well.

She ties them into a bundle and wraps the stems in paper, and Sten returns to the estate with the flowers in his arms. The overbearing mage stifles a laugh when he appears and attempts to hand her the package.

“You did not tell me which would be helpful.” “Those—those are lovely, Sten. Go give them to Adhara.” “...Very well.”

When he opens the door, the Templar has Adhara laughing again. Looking at Alistair, Sten knows that _he_ , at least, will not be the wolf to attack from the side, because he cares about his fellow Warden.

“What are those, _lethallin_?”

He holds the bundle out to her. “Flowers.”

Adhara takes them from him and begins smelling and inspecting various blooms. “Yes, a _lot_ of flowers. Thank you!” She falls backward onto the bed with them against her chest.

“Do they make you feel better?”

She giggles. “Yes. But now I'm hungry. Why don't you to go find a kitchen scullion or whatever they are and demand food for the injured heroine?”

Sten follows Alistair out of the room and frowns when he begins laughing. “Sten, you sneak! I didn't know you had it in you!”

The priestess rounds the corner as Sten stares down at him in confusion. “What?” they say in unison. 

“Sten just gave 'Dhara flowers.”

“No! I knew it! Sten, you are such a big softie!”

“What? No, they were medicinal!”

“If you say so,” the priestess grins.

The overbearing mage comes into view as they enter the main part of the estate. He does not like the way she is smiling. “Did Adhara like her present?”

Now they are _all_ staring at him. Soft chooses this moment to run toward him with a trill, and the priestess bursts into laughter. “Softie!” she hums.

“Please stop saying that. And stop looking at me and giggling.”

“But you're so big and stoic! Who would have thought you would adopt kittens and give your girlfriend flowers?”

Another unfamiliar word, but he is certain that he does not want to be told its definition. “The cat adopted me, and the flowers were _medicinal_!”

The priestess glances at the overbearing mage, whose smile widens. Parshaara. “I am soldier of the Beresaad. I do not buy flowers on a whim.” “Soooftie!”

...He _hates_ humans.

 

 


	16. Draw your sword. I want to see what you can do.

_Drapery. Desperate, desolate, deconstruction. Devoid. Dalish, delicious._

Sten is bored. 

The human nobles are grousing, and their voices are echoing throughout the chamber. But the room is too large, and improperly shaped, and so voices dissipate and nobody listens to the words being spoken. He is left wondering yet again how it is possible that his people failed in conquering the southern lands. 

Adhara stands beside him, arms crossed, periodically sighing and yelling at the old soldier that is their enemy. He paces and places blame and mentions Orlesians, and Adhara grows increasingly annoyed and shouts about enslaved elves and assassins and poison. 

_Deflection. Desire, dangerous, dark, daring._

Sten sneezes. _Dusty_. Several nobles stare at him, but when the old soldier begins shouting outright, all eyes return to him instead. His hand is on his blade, and he is standing threateningly close to Adhara. 

_Duel_. Sten is about to protest and insist that he fight the massive man for her when Alistair steps forward, hand upon his blade, and takes a strong stance between Adhara and the old soldier. 

Alistair is the senior Warden of the two of them. Sten keeps forgetting that. This is the first time he has taken initiative in all their months of travel. Had it been anyone else attempting to defend her, Adhara would have battled the old soldier herself, Sten is sure. But for him, Adhara merely smiles and steps out of the way. 

Interesting. So Alistair does have a spine, after all. Sten crosses his arms again and waits to see what he will do with it. 

“Thanks, 'Dhara,” the Templar smiles, and draws his blade as the terms are called by the outspoken female noble. 

The crowd forms a nervous circle around the fighters, but he and Adhara stand still at the edge, watching the warriors before them intently. He can tell by the small crease above her eyebrows that she is worried for her brother-in-arms. After the old soldier's first swing, Sten is, as well. His thrusts are violent, but precise in their execution, meant to cause the most damage with the least exertion. He is powerful, and experienced, and practiced, and Alistair is soon nicked and bleeding at the cheek. 

Alistair is knocked back several times as he parries the old soldier's blows, but at last remembers his footwork through his anger and settles into the same intent frame of mind as his opponent. 

Now the fight is even. Sten's eyes dart between them, watching the play of their emotions and the pace of their breathing, attempting to decide if Adhara's fellow Warden will make it out alive. 

Alistair is too angry; the emotion is exhausting him and draining his accuracy. Allowing himself to be ruled by emotions in the heat of battle is a mistake. But the old soldier does not take the Templar seriously, which is also a mistake. Perhaps months ago this would have been the proper course of action, but a man who cannot see change in his enemy is doomed to failure. 

Alistair gives a sudden shout and surges forward in a rush, knocking into his opponent with his shield and sending him staggering backward. The old soldier stumbles, loses his grip on his sword, and looks to Adhara with wide eyes. The Templar freezes, sacrificing the momentum needed for a killing blow to glance at his leader for approval. 

The room freezes and everyone holds their breath, except for the blonde queen, who begins to insist that her father's life be spared. But all eyes in the room turn to Adhara and wait for her decision yet again. 

Adhara ignores the screaming and silent nobles alike. Instead, she fixes her gaze on the two combatants before her, and gives a slight nod when Alistair positions for the killing stroke. The queen shrieks again, ordering them all to stop, but Sten can tell by the way the nobles exhale at once that they wish for Alistair to obey Adhara. 

Only in Ferelden would he see an elf become more powerful than one born to rule. It seems to confuse Adhara as much as it does him, but she still gives Alistair the last bit of goading that he needs to exact his revenge. 

“Do it, you sod. What are you waiting for?” 

The Templar's sword falls, and another of their opponents falls with it, spine severed at the neck. Blood sprays into the air, and as it coats Alistair's face Sten notices that he appears to be happy. 

The civil war has been stopped. Revenge has been taken. Perhaps now they will be able to focus properly on the Blight and kill darkspawn for once. The arishok will not understand. 

None of the nobles appear to be willing to break the silence. Adhara gazes around the room, frowns, and then leaps at Alistair, throwing her arms around his neck. “Well done!” 

“'Dhara, ow, ow, that's—no, stop, I pulled that muscle, please, for the love of the Maker!” She lets go, and he rubs at his shoulder. “You're a menace!” 

“Whiner,” she retorts. 

“Well, Warden,” the arl calls from his vantage point above them, “your champion has won the duel, and the Landsmeet will honor your decision regarding the throne.” 

Vashedan. This country makes no sense. 

“...What?” Adhara stares up at the arl and crosses her arms. “Are all of you shemlen insane?” 

There is a long pause, and Sten notices that most of the humans are staring at her tattoo. She grumbles and points to the queen, who is kneeling beside the bloody corpse of her father. “Don't you people already have a ruler?” 

The arl frowns. “Yes, but Ferelden deserves a Theirin on the throne.” 

No. Ferelden deserves a Theirin raised to be a noble. Blood's potential will not be tapped through improper upbringing. Alistair would not think properly for the job. He is a Warden, and a mage- killer, and once the Blight is over those skills will prove useless to the country. 

Adhara seems to agree with Sten's silent assessment. “Then all of you should have thought about that before you let Cailan die,” she retorts, glaring at the assembled nobles. “Honestly. I shouldn't have to rearrange your sodding political system just so I can do my duty as a Grey Warden and save your hides from a Blight. Anora is your queen. Keep her, and let us Wardens do our job!” 

With that, she turns and strides toward the exit. The crowd parts around his chest as Sten follows, and he can hear Alistair and the overbearing mage following behind them both. 

“Well, that was tactful,” she says to Adhara through pursed lips, and crosses her arms as she is rounded on. 

“I'm sick of this!” Adhara shouts. “There's an archdemon singing in my blood, and darkspawn eating half the country, but those idiots are worried about bloodlines.” 

The overbearing mage shakes her head. “Alienating the nobles isn't going to help your cause.” 

“I have my army,” she replies. “They have their queen, Alistair has his life back, and everyone wins.” 

“Thank you for that, by the way,” Alistair murmurs. “I owe you one, 'Dhara.” 

She shakes her head and shoves at his shoulder. “No, you don't. Now let's get back to the estate and pack in case the arl decides to throw us out for ruining his plans.” 

The arl does not throw them out. His country is unified, and now he turns his gaze on the enemy gnawing away at the land. The Warden they saved when rescuing the queen outranks Adhara and Alistair both, and so takes control of the battle plans. Months of fighting, and planning, and _walking_ grind to a halt as the army is assembled and they prepare to mass and march for the horde. Sten spends a day pacing listlessly before he reaches the limits of his boredom and asks Alistair to spar with him. 

Adhara, who so thoroughly resented being placed in charge when he joined them at Lothering, now seems equally adrift without plans to be made. Her senior Warden keeps her updated and asks for specifics on the armies she has gathered, but Adhara is not a general. She is a soldier. Until there is fighting, both she and Sten are reduced to uselessness. 

When it is announced that they are leaving to meet the troops massing at Redcliffe, she looks as relieved has he feels. They spend a final night in her bed, and he is just beginning to drift when Adhara's voice sounds at his chest. 

“You're lucky, you know.” Her voice sounds choked, and his fingers find their way into her hair of their own volition. 

“Why?” 

“You get to go home soon.” She speaks the words lightly, but her muscles are tense against his skin. 

Home. Sten wraps his arms around her and breathes in her hair. “I will not miss Ferelden.” 

A long pause. “What's Seheron like?” 

Memories and scents stir in his mind from where he has been trying not to recall them. “Incense, tea. The smell of the sea. The language isn't grating to the ears like the common tongue.” 

“The little I know sounds lovely, it's true.” 

An unexpected compliment. Sten feels the sudden urge to hear her speaking fluent qunari. “Return with me.” Only after he has spoken the words does he begin to wonder if it would be possible for her to do so. Adhara is a woman, and a soldier. She fights, and leads, and there is no place for her within the Qun. 

Adhara pulls her face away from his chest and stares up at his face. When she speaks, she sounds as confused as he feels. “...What?” 

“I have to go home. I must complete my duty to the arishok. But your duty is in your blood. You can be a Warden wherever you go.” Her status as a Warden will be enough to keep her safe in his homeland. The Antaam hold them in high enough regard to tolerate her eccentricities.... 

Perhaps he should not have suggested this. 

She closes her eyes. “What about the Fereldan order?” 

Sten finds himself wanting to convince her despite his reservations. She has grown close to Alistair, but if he leaves her she will be trapped in a country that makes no sense with people who are desperate to pretend that it does. He thinks of how she looked among the Dalish, and how she acted at the Landsmeet, and concludes that it would be better for everyone if she came home with him. 

“You are not the senior Warden,” he replies, “and Alistair has shown that he can take charge if needed. It is not your responsibility.” 

Adhara relaxes back into his chest, apparently deep in thought. “Would I get to meet the arishok?” 

...A frightening scenario. But if he returns with a Grey Warden, there will be many who will wish to meet her. Who better to speak to for an improved understanding of the nature of a Blight? 

“Yes,” he replies, and she laughs quietly into his chest. 

“Then how can I say no?” 

Tension that Sten had not even been aware he was feeling eases from his shoulders, and he sighs into her hair. He will not have to choose between his home and his kadan. At least not immediately. 

_Delay_. Sten forces his breathing to deepen, and soon he is tired again.


	17. You have carried us this far, do not doubt that.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It feels so odd to read back over this knowing what I know now about Qunari thanks to Inquisition and the Iron Bull, but thankfully I think it holds up decently. So, I'll be posting the last of it tonight.

Adhara knocks the hurlock from the top of the fort with an exceptionally violent shield bash. Sten expects her to cheer or say something as she normally does, but instead she simply turns grimly to the next opponent. She has been like this since the witch left them in Redcliffe. She will not laugh, or smile, or rest against him when she is tired. Instead, she sets her jaw and kills. Today the two of them have dropped darkspawn by the hundreds within Denerim, but her motions are mechanical. She will not tell him what is wrong, but he also does not ask; he is not the one who speaks, and based on Alistair's concerned glances, he already knows. 

She has told someone. She is talking. That is all that matters. Sten's job is to keep her alive. 

More shrieks signal an impending wave of darkspawn. Sten glances from Alistair to the overbearing mage, wondering who to aid next. The archdemon solves that problem for him by leaping into the air and lunging at the Templar. He and Adhara surge forward with a shout, and he sends Asala home between two massive scales. 

As he withdraws his blade, the ominous sound of stone on armor causes him to glance over his shoulder. The overbearing mage is surrounded by darkspawn and casting defensive spells. 

Vashedan. If she dies, there will be nobody to heal the Wardens during the fight. He breaks away from the archdemon and sprints for her, bellowing to draw their attention away. 

More cuts. Daggers land, claws scrape, and Sten bleeds, but his party stands. The archdemon takes to the sky again, limping away, and he protects the mage as Adhara and Alistair sprint for it, determined to give it no respite. When more darkspawn surge to the top of the fort, Adhara blows the horn she strapped to her waist, and Sten waits for reinforcements and keeps their mage alive in the interim. 

More mages arrive, and soon he is too busy dodging fireballs and frigid gusts of icy air to focus properly on the darkspawn. Parshaara, they are as likely to die from magic as the archdemon at this point. 

Adhara is knocked back by a buffet from the demon, sending her directly into the line of a stone spike, and she goes down with a shout. He wants to run to her, but instead he frees the overbearing mage from battle so she can heal Adhara. 

The stones around them begin to crumble as mortar melts under heat and the sheer weight of their foe, and Sten is soon too busy avoiding mages and rubble to focus on the Wardens. When a bone-shaking shriek fills the air, causing his teeth to ache and his hands to nearly drop Asala, he turns to see Alistair atop the beast's head, dealing a massive blow while Adhara screams something at him. The archdemon thrashes, Alistair is knocked loose, but the Wardens do not surge forward to deal the final blow. 

Instead, they begin to argue. Adhara seizes Alistair by the shoulder as he prepares to close the distance and end the fight, spinning him and shaking her head angrily. When he pushes her aside, she places herself squarely between the Templar and his goal, practically shrieking in rage. 

Sten runs for them, utterly confused. “Now is not the time to fight,” he tells them. 

Adhara's face turns pale when she sees him approach, but Alistair snarls at him. “Good! Help her see reason!” 

She narrows her eyes. “Alistair, I can't let you kill the archdemon!” 

He ignores Adhara and gazes up at Sten. “Look, I dealt most of the damage. I should get the credit for the kill. It's how we play when we compete for points, right?” 

Sten nods. That seems correct, as far as he pays attention to the game the Templar, Adhara, and the priestess play, though also completely irrelevant. “But you should not be competing. We are not killing genlocks on the road.” 

Alistair throws his hands into the air. “That's not all of it! Riordan's dead. I outrank Adhara, and I'll need the credit for this kill to get the Wardens working again.” 

A more sensible point. Sten nods again, and Adhara crosses her arms. 

“Alistair, don't you dare manipulate him like this!” Her voice is hoarse from shouting. 

“Maybe you should have told him, 'Dhara.” 

“Told me what?” 

She turns to him, face still pale, and eyes glassy, but remains silent. Alistair chooses that moment to bolt for the archdemon breathing its last nearby, sword drawn. When he screams and begins running, Adhara tries to go after him, but Sten wraps his arms around her. 

“He has decided, kadan. Let him do it.” Strange, that she should be so stubborn about this. 

“Let me go, Sten!” She struggles, pushing her fingers into his gauntlet and trying to slip away when it comes loose, but he simply lets it fall and tightens his grip, pinning her to him with his forearm. 

“You idiot! You martyr! You coward!” she shrieks after Alistair. “I'll never forgive you for this!” “Kadan.” He is about to continue, but she sinks her teeth into his thumb. 

Qunari teeth are strong. He told her that the day he took the mace to the face in the forest. They can cut through skin, and bone, and metal if need be. The only thing that prevented him from chewing his way out of his cage in Lothering was a perverse desire to preserve what little honor he had left after murdering those humans. 

Elven teeth should not be strong. Her jaw is small, and her teeth smaller, but they still relentlessly split through his skin. She does not stop when he begins to bleed, but he does not let go. She does not stop when she damages tendons, causing pain to sear up and down his arm, but he does not release her. His blood pools around her mouth and runs down them both as she tries to work free to stop Alistair. 

Her teeth halt at the bone, catching and grinding, but going no further. Sten's eyes are watering, and he realizes through his pain that she is sobbing, but he still does not let go. He looks to Alistair, who is raising his blade for the killing blow, and braces himself for Adhara's anger when the claim becomes his. She will calm down. She always calms down. Alistair will talk to her and make her see sense. 

Except that it is unlike her to be so adamant about such a little thing. Something is wrong. 

White light bursts from the archdemon, and Adhara releases his thumb and falls to her knees as Sten stands and stares. He is blinded, and surrounded by wailing sound as brightness spreads from its epicenter. Beneath it, he can hear the Templar screaming and Adhara wailing at his feet. 

Sten understands almost instantly that he has made a mistake. When the sky clears and his ears are ringing, two corpses fall, the blade of the first buried into the neck of the second. 

The city goes silent. Minutes pass, and eventually Adhara rises, head bowed, gauntlets clenched at her sides, her tattoo stained with Sten's blood. He looks down at his thumb, then over to where Alistair lies crumpled. 

_Maybe you should have told him._

She had known that killing the archdemon would end her life. They both had. 

Alistair died with his eyes open. Sten brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks at the wound, willing it to cease burning as he stares down at the last person he ever expected would be the wolf to strike Adhara from the side. She would not be this angry with him unless they had reached a decision before the battle. She had agreed to die, and he had broken his word and done it instead. Sten wants to know why. 

But the question he wants to ask Adhara proves both more painful and more distracting. He spits his blood onto the stone and turns his eyes on her. 

Why didn't she tell him? 

She stands between him and Alistair, tears cutting lines through the blood coating the lower half of her face. He takes a step closer, but she refuses to look at him. Her eyes are fixed on the ground, and her fists are still clenched. 

He knows this emotion. He felt it when he stood in the middle of the farmhouse, covered in the blood of the humans who had tended his wounds. It is not rage that is making her clench her fists, but despair. 

“Kadan,” he ventures. 

She keeps her eyes locked on the stone below her feet. “Leave.” 

When he takes a step closer, her eyes narrow and fix on his. “I said _go_ , Sten! I don't want to talk to you.” 

For the first time, his title sounds terrible when she says it, and so Sten obeys.


	18. We will do better next time.

They are told that the Blight has ended. Just when Sten does not particularly wish to think, he finds that he has ample time to do so. And, now that Adhara is refusing to speak to him, he has little to distract himself from thoughts of her. His mind gnaws on a single memory like it is starving, and Sten is left compelled to dissect it in the days that follow the battle. 

Leaving the clan of Dalish behind in the Brecilian Forest was painful for Adhara. Sten watched her say goodbye and shoulder her pack, and walked behind her as she forced herself not to look back. 

“They aren't my people anymore,” she told him later. “I can't be a Dalish and a Warden. The Dalish are too near-sighted. It serves its purpose keeping our culture alive, but it's not fair to Alistair.” At this, she looked over her shoulder to where the Templar was walking behind them, running his fingers over a small carved figure and grinning. 

“Being a Dalish is in your blood,” he replied. 

She smiled and ran her hands against her tattoo. “Yes, of course, but so is being a Warden, remember? You said so yourself. So I'll just make the Wardens my new clan.” She finished her sentence by tossing a rock at her brother-in-arms and laughing when he started in surprise. 

When Sten first joined them, Alistair would have been hurt. This time, he laughed and hit her with a stick, causing her armor to ring like a small bell. They had become friends since Lothering, and would be better fighters for it. 

He had never considered that they would be more likely to hurt one another, as well. 

Sten thinks of this conversation with Adhara every time he sees her in the days that follow the battle atop Fort Drakon. He understands why she wanted to be the one to make the final blow. He even understands why she refused to tell him what would happen ahead of time. 

When he woke in the farmhouse near Lothering, he had been alone. His brothers were dead, his sword missing. Everything that defined him was gone. The same thing happened to Adhara when she became a Grey Warden, but she moved on and found a new clan. 

But now all the Wardens in Ferelden are dead, and she has lost her people yet again. He wants to tell her that he understands this, but she refuses to speak to him. Each time they meet in a hallway, she drops her eyes to the floor until he passes by. When he tries letting herself into her room the night they move back into the arl's estate, she hurls a vase at his head. 

After that, he ceases attempting to speak with her. 

Sten books passage to Seheron three days after Denerim has recovered from the battle. The queen is planning some sort of ceremony to honor Adhara and the others. Sten decides to leave once it is finished so the arishok will know the outcome of the Blight. He no longer has a legitimate reason to remain away from qunari lands, and deciding to stay any longer would likely cause his people to brand him a fiend. He has his answer. He has Asala. And he can go home, even if the woman responsible for his success no longer intends to come with him. 

The thought of leaving Ferelden is the only thing that makes staying at the arl's estate bearable. Normally he would practice with Asala to pass the time, but the damage Adhara's teeth did to his thumb makes gripping the hilt impossible. The overbearing mage attempts to heal it more than once, and each time he refuses to allow her. He has many other scars, and it is fitting that he have something to remember the events on top of the fort, as well. Each time Sten looks down at it, he thinks of Adhara and her wolves, and how certain he was that Alistair would never betray her. 

He did it to save her life, but Sten agrees with Adhara that Alistair made the coward's decision. He did not like to lead. He did not like to be alone. But neither does Adhara, and now the assassin and Alistair are dead and the witch is gone. The dwarf and priestess plan on leaving shortly after the ceremony, as does Sten. In a matter of days, Adhara will be alone. Alistair has condemned her to the fate he was afraid to meet for himself. 

At dinner the night before the ceremony, Sten cannot hold his fork because of how sore and stiff his thumb has become. The instant he feels the overbearing mage's eyes on him, he rises and leaves the table before she can scold him yet again for not letting her heal him. He is convinced that if he were not quite so imposing, she would do it without his permission. 

Adhara lets herself into the room he has been sharing with the dwarf while he is struggling to take his shirt off with one hand. She sets down a bowl of water and an injury kit before taking his hand in both of hers and running her fingers gently over the wound. He tenses in surprise and pain as she takes his wrist in one hand and a wash rag in the other. 

“You sodding stubborn qunari,” she sighs. “This is infected.” 

When he shrugs, she scowls and shoves at his chest, silently ordering him to sit on the bed. He obeys, and she begins cleaning and bandaging his thumb in silence. She refuses to look at his face, instead focusing intently on the bite marks. Sten alternates between watching her work and closing his eyes and breathing in the smell of her hair. 

This feels familiar. Her fingers are careful and precise, cleaning the bite with a minimal amount of pain just like she would have done if they were still at camp. When she begins crushing leaves and packing them against the wound, he feels suddenly unprepared to leave for Seheron. 

“Kadan,” he says at last. “I am—” 

She refuses to look up. “ _Don't_.” 

And so he does not tell her that he is leaving in four days. When she finishes mending his hand, she lets herself out without another word. He sits on the edge of the bed and runs a thumb over the bandages, wondering what it meant that she had treated him and still refused to speak. 

Sten is about to sleep when his door opens again. He looks up, expecting to see Adhara, and meets eyes with the priestess. Until recently he could always tell when she was entering a room because of her incessant humming, but she has been silent since Fort Drakon. 

“Do you have clothes for tomorrow?” 

Sten pauses his attempts to remove his shirt one-handed. “I am wearing clothes, am I not?” 

She scowls at his trousers. “I was worried about that. Come here, the seamstress that was fitting Adhara's dress is still here.” 

Adhara's _dress_? Sten must have made a face, because the priestess laughs at him. “Don't worry, we took her weapons away. She'll look wonderful tomorrow.” 

That is not the best news he has heard, but he lets her lead him into a room with a tired-looking human all the same. She takes one look at him and pinches the bridge of her nose. “And now a qunari. As if the dwarf and murderin' elf weren't bad enough.” 

“He will be good, Yfreth.” the priestess insists. And so Sten stands still and lets himself be measured, though he has to kneel for her to get to his shoulders and neck. 

“What colors would you like to wear, ser?” 

Vashedan. He has no idea how to answer that sort of question. Sten stares helplessly at the priestess, who begins listing off shades and suggesting ones that would go with his eyes. 

"Parshaara," he interrupts at last, standing and looming over them both. "I am not an upholstered chair." 

"And I can work with that, oddly enough," the seamstress replies, and shows him a bolt of simple, well-woven cloth. "This more to your liking, ser?" 

"Yes." It is not brocaded, or threaded with gold, or covered in jewels, or any other horrible thing the priestess had been threatening. It is a sturdy cloth the color of an abused blade and would not make him feel like a decoration for the queen. 

"Military types," she sighs. "I'd complain, but you saved my city, so I'll make your bleedin' boring trousers." 

Sten scowls and leaves the room without another word, intent on sleeping and forgetting about seamstresses and complementary colors and how he would have looked had the priestess had her way. 

But when he wakes up in the morning, his new clothes are ready, and the priestess goads into them before he has a chance to find breakfast. 

"Why are you bothering me?" he demands, snatching the trousers out of her hands and pulling them on over his smallclothes. 

"You need to look nice today!" Sten does not like the way she gazes at his hair as she says those words. There is nothing wrong with his hair. 

"I am a soldier. The nobles will hardly be surprised if I do not fit in." 

"But Adhara looks so pretty. You need to be able to match her!" 

He had forgotten about Adhara and the _dress_ , but finds himself still unable to picture the combination. She was meant for armor. It was cruel of them to put her in a dress. Sten decides that it must have been the queen's idea; she would have refused otherwise. 

Sten pulls the tunic over his head and adjusts the collar as best he can with his sore hand. "Look at my thumb?" When she glances at it, he continues. "Adhara did that. I suspect we will be doing very little standing beside one another today." 

The priestess' face falls. "She's just upset about Alistair. She'll calm down. She always calms down." 

She pulls him to his knees and begins fixing the collar herself. Sten scowls at her and considers what she said about Adhara. He thought the same thing on top of the tower, before he understood what he had been tricked into doing. Sten nearly asks the priestess if she is really convinced that Adhara always calms down, but decides that it does not matter. 

Once she has finished fussing with his shirt, Sten stands and stares down at her. "I am leaving for Seheron in three days." 

"No!" She crosses her arms and blocks him from leaving the room. "You can't do that! She'll be alone!" 

"I am aware." That is part of why he asked her to come with him. 

Her lip curls. "Have you told her?" 

He fixes his eyes on the door. "...She will not let me." 

"Oh, blood and damnation!” He stares down at her in surprise, and she puts her hands on her hips. “Stop sulking and _talk_ to her, Sten." 

The priestess bothers him until the ceremony begins, but falls silent when Adhara appears on the dais and listens to Anora's long speech. The seamstress has stitched vines into her gown that match her tattoo, and Sten thinks that she looks appealing, but the nobles in the room appear to be staring at her ears rather than her gown. 

“Bloody knife-ear. Wonder why they bothered dressing her up?” mutters a noble in front of Sten, and he grits his teeth. 

“Did you forget she saved your holding?” a woman hisses back at him. “She's a hero.” 

“We all know those Dalish can use weapons. So she chose to kill darkspawn this time. Doesn't mean she's one of us, Alfstanna.” 

...She will be very alone. Sten closes his eyes until the urge to speak has passed. 

"I admit I'm not sure how to honor our new Hero of Ferelden," the queen says at last, silencing all the voices in the crowd. "What do you wish?" 

Adhara doesn't even pause to think. "A new home for the Dalish. We fought to save your land, so it seems only fair to give us back ours." 

There is a murmur through the crowd, but the queen agrees instantly. "Additionally, I am giving the Arling of Amaranthine to the Wardens, and naming you Arlessa Adhara Mahariel." 

"... _What_?" Adhara sounds more outraged than the noble near Sten, who has begun muttering under his breath. 

"It is the least I can do to reward your service to the crown." 

Adhara's hands clench at her sides. Many notice, and disapprove, but Sten is impressed by her restraint. "Do you always reward service with imprisonment, then?" 

The queen's lips press together briefly before she replies. "I am giving the Grey Wardens a place to rebuild." 

"But it's not your place to decree who does the rebuilding. When the Wardens have decided who will lead the order here, you'll be told, but I can guarantee I won't be your arlessa. You'll thank me for that later, human lord." 

The atmosphere in the room is chilly when the ceremony's formalities grind to a halt. Sten stands near the wall, watching Adhara exchange terse words with the arl who helped them, but when it becomes clear that she is not going to seek him out he leaves for the estate and begins packing. 

He is walking for the docks before any of the others have returned. _Home. Hope, happiness, heighten._

He stays at a small inn for the three days before the ship arrives, and is surprised at how good it feels to spend time alone. On the day he is meant to leave, Ferelden outdoes itself by making the docks of Denerim smell like wet, salty dog. Sten seeks the ship and tries not to breathe too deeply as the crowd parts around him. It used to make him feel out of place how people would slow down and stare, but now it is soothing. He is still a qunari. When he goes home, he will fit in. 

Somewhat. He knows a woman who is also a soldier. That is bound to have affected his outlook in other ways 

Sten locates the vessel bound for his home and stands on the dock, closing his eyes and enjoying the sound of the waves. He will not miss Ferelden, or its Fereldans, though he suspects that he will miss the country's confections. He will not miss the politics, or the darkspawn, or trying to make sense of customs and words. He will not miss the language. 

But he will miss his kadan. He looks down at his bandaged thumb, now finally healing, and frowns. Had she been anyone else but a Grey Warden, he never would have asked her to return with him. Being a Warden might keep her safe. They would not take her, would not keep her. She would be allowed to work with the military. She would be allowed to come and go, because they would respect her as a warrior. 

And she was an elf, so they would probably mistake her for a man. She never smelled strongly like women of other races often did during his journey across Thedas because in the months that he has known her, she has never bled. Sten never asked, but assumed that this was part of suffering from darkspawn corruption. A tainted woman should not breed, he is sure, and her body appeared to agree. 

She was strong. She would have been safe in his lands. He would have still been able to see her. 

Bringing her back, if anything, would have endangered him. It seemed worth the risk after the Landsmeet. But perhaps it is better that she stays here. She is a Warden, after all, and there are many darkspawn left to kill. Other Wardens will come. She will not be alone for long. 

"You a statue, or a passenger?" growls a voice beside him, and Sten looks down to see a sailor staring up at him. 

A senseless query. "Do you often ask questions of statues?" 

"Oh, good. We've got a _funny_ qunari this voyage." The man snorts and walks up the plank to board the ship. 

He will not miss Fereldans and their insistence that he is funny. 

Sten is just about to walk after the sailor when another voice cuts through the sound of the waves and the crowd and stops him in his tracks. 

"I have a question." 

He turns to face Adhara, and she gives him a calculating stare. His mouth opens, then closes, and he waits for her to speak. 

"Aren't I a little short for you?" 

She asked him that in the tavern in Denerim, after he kissed her and before she ordered him to do it again. Familiar words, but his answer has changed. "No." 

Adhara adjusts the pack on her back. Sten sees dark rings under her eyes. "But I'm too short for Seheron, right?" 

"Yes." 

She gives up and drops the pack at her feet. "And I am a woman, and a soldier. That would be intolerable for your arishok, I think." 

"Yes," he admits. 

She steps close, and the breeze sends her scent toward him. "Sounds like fun. Can I come?" 

Sten stares down at her, inspecting her face under its tattoo. "It will not be easy for you, especially if you speak to qunari as you have human nobles." 

She snorts. " _Shems_. I'll be on my best behavior." 

"That is difficult to imagine." She laughs, but he was being truthful. "What about the Wardens?" 

Adhara rolls her eyes. "Some Orlesian Wardens arrived today, and their leader took one look at me and started ranting about 'ze elf zat helped ze great Alistair build his army,' so I excused myself and started packing." 

Sten smiles at this, and she laughs again. "I'm glad Alistair will be so well-remembered, don't get me wrong. But the bastard made me do most of the work, and if he gets the credit, too, I'm jumping ship and fighting darkspawn somewhere else. I'm sick of politics." 

"You will not be able to be a woman and a soldier in my homeland." 

She shrugs. "So I'll be a man and a soldier. Convincing you was hard enough." At these words, she steps closer and throws her arms around his waist. 

Odd, that the sensation should still seem so normal after so many days without feeling it. Sten runs a hand over her hair, and she leans against him more fully. "I don't have anywhere else to go, anyway." 

"I know." He rests his hands on her shoulders and enjoys how her smell mingles with the salt air. They need to get out of Ferelden so he can surround her with incense instead of mud and trash. 

She turns her head to stare at his bandaged hand for a moment, and appears to be about to speak, then changes her mind and simply smiles up at him instead. 

"So," she says, taking her pack back into her hand, "where's the captain? I should chat with him about booking passage." 

“The ship is full,” he replies. 

“I don't care.” 

Sten points up the plank, and follows after her as she walks, watching the sway of her hips within her trousers. Much better than the dress. 

Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, Adhara aqun. _The tide rises, the tide falls, but Adhara is changeless._


	19. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

"I'm _not_ saying it again." 

Sten lifts his head from the mass of pillows and blankets that became their bed on the first night of the voyage after the bunks proved too small for him to sleep in. "Your accent is embarrassing, kadan." 

Adhara scowls and presses closer into his chest. "I'm tired. And don't we have three more weeks of being stuck on this boat?" 

"It will take more than three weeks to learn my tongue," he says into her hair. 

"Exactly. So let me sleep." She licks a slow trail along his neck, and he sighs. 

"You do not seem particularly tired." 

"Well, you're the one who told me I won't be able to stay with you in Seheron after I got on the sodding ship." When he scowls, she laughs at him. "It's fine, lethallin. I don't want the Ben-Hessrath taking you away." 

"Ben-Hassrath," he corrects. 

Adhara yawns. "Benhes-Rith." "You are doing this intentionally." 

"Ben-Hassrath," she replies, and proves him right. "That will suffice." 

She closes her eyes again, and he rolls over and pulls her to his chest. His language has never sounded so interesting. 

...Vashedan, now he is no longer tired. He runs his hands down her back, brushing his fingertips against her skin with deliberate slowness until it is her turn to sigh. 

“ _Souver'inan isala hamin_.” Her tone is scolding, but her eyes are merry. 

“You are a terrible teacher. I don't know those words.” 

“Try harder to learn. Knowing elvish could come in handy in your lands.” 

“Or create cause for suspicion,” he replies, pulling her upward and nipping at her neck. “Tell me what you said.” 

“'Weary eyes need rest.'” Her voice contains the faintest hint of groan, and he smiles against her neck as he hears it. 

“You hardly sound _weary_ , kadan.” 

“ _Ma nuvenin_ ,” she replies, and covers his mouth with hers. 

He will _miss_ this. Sten knows this, and he knows that she will, as well, but he has yet to doubt her decision to travel with him. Adhara is learning his language quickly, and his fellow qunari will be as confused by her body language as Sten was when they first met. 

They will be safe. Sten will show her his homeland, and the foods he has missed, and hear her learn the language and smell her scent in a land that will do it justice. She will not be alone. 

...But she still will not be with her people. And no matter how much elvish he learns, he will remain a qunari. He remembers how she looked among her people in the Brecilian Forest and asks a question that makes her muscles tense. 

"Why did you not go home?" 

"I've told you," she mutters. "It's my duty." 

Sten scowls. "Grey Warden duty is in your blood, kadan. That is why you are on this ship with me." 

Adhara giggles, which he did not expect. "Not my duty as a Grey Warden, but as a Dalish." 

Her duty as a _Dalish_ is preventing her from returning to her people? "Parshaara, you are not making sense." 

She sits up on the blankets beside him, shivering slightly as the sheet covering her slides around her waist. In the gloom, her tattoo appears grey rather than purple. "Darkspawn can sense Grey Wardens, and they often seek them out. Remember the shriek attack?" 

Sten nods. Neither of them mention her hunting partner. 

"Without the archdemon's call to follow, I'm worried that will happen more often." She sighs and brushes a loose strand of hair from her eyes. "If I went home, I would be endangering my people." 

"And so you endanger mine instead?" 

She grins at him. "I'm a Grey Warden, Sten. It's about time you qunari took a vested interest in protecting your lands from darkspawn, wouldn't you say?" 

...Vashedan. "What are you planning, kadan?" 

"You'll see," she murmurs, pressing into his chest. "You'll see." 

Sten resists the urge to rub at his temples and worry about the arishok. "You are going to get us both _killed_." 

"Don't tempt the trickster," she retorts, and pulls him upward by his braids for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to my betas estaratshirai and lennanightrunner, who have been my trusty sounding boards for years now. A beta who will tell you when a section of story is rubbish is rare, and I've managed to find two of them. Keeps the ego in check and the stories readable.
> 
> Also, special thanks to acid for convincing me to finally move over to AO3. (Getting my fics removed for responding to questions readers asked me on AFF certainly helped.) I'll try to get the entirety of the fic up this week.


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